


Live By The Sun

by unablearethelovedto_die



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 11:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unablearethelovedto_die/pseuds/unablearethelovedto_die
Summary: AU, non-magic real world, Muggle. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were childhood sweethearts until it all fell apart. Forced back together due to unfortunate circumstances, will they end up where they intend? Complete





	1. That Girl Was Not This Girl

There are few places anywhere that bear witness to the entire spectrum of human emotions. Usually, a place invokes a general feel: happiness or sadness, rage or disgust, bubbly, giggly elation or deep introspection and people tend to follow the status quo. Also, places have a 'type' of person who go to them, generally. Some people like the cinema, some people never go at all. Some people visit the newsagents to pick up the paper each morning, others sit in a coffee shop with their laptop and digest the world's goings on there. Somebody's idea of heaven is another's idea of hell. Human beings like continuity and patterns, there is safety in the familiarity of life spent doing what they always do.

But sometimes life changes. And the biggest of life's changes are recorded at the Registry Office: births, deaths, marriages and civil partnerships.

Ron Weasley had always considered it a privilege to work in a place where the most important things in life were noted. He liked the fact that everyone was equal when they came for an appointment with him. Social status, wealth, none of that mattered; everyone sat in the waiting area, cheek by jowl, waiting to tell him their plans, their joy, their despair. And no one could avoid it. Which meant he got to meet all sorts of people, every day. He cheered with them, he laughed with them and, more often than he cared to admit, he cried with them. Every story he heard was prized in its own way, each person brought theirs to him and it was his job to make it official. 

As a rule, Ron's was quite a happy job. He rarely met with two people who weren't excited about getting married for example. People loved bringing their babies to register the birth. Deaths were different of course. There would often be a lot of tears, disbelief, worry. Sometimes people were glad. Their loved one had been spared the suffering of a long illness following a terminal diagnosis perhaps. Or maybe they had had a long, content life and it was considered the natural order of things that they go. That was Ron's favourite death to record, if he had to record them at all. And this was what he was doing on a drizzly Thursday morning with Mrs. Alderdyce. 

Strictly a Registry Office shouldn't have regulars but somehow Mrs. Alderdyce had become theirs. She had a lot of elderly friends in the area, many of whom lost spouses and required her stoic support. She had five granddaughters, who were slowly getting wed, and great grandchildren were being born at an alarming rate. Sometimes she didn't have a real reason to come into the office at all and Ron would dander in to find her propped on booth three talking to Meda, cup of tea in hand. "Nothing to report!" she would holler, waving a finger of shortbread, sugar shedding on the carpet. 

She carried a huge, ancient, black leather bag that drooped off one arm and it was a veritable treasure trove of curiosities. Whomever ‘got Mrs. Alderdyce’ in any given day had a duty to report back if they had seen anything peeking out. In his time knowing her, Ron had seen the hood ornament from a BMW, a small wheel of cheese, a Walkman that played cassettes, various lengths of ribbon and a gilt-framed photo of the Queen. “Only the most special get a frame”, she told him, patting it gently.

Today, Mrs. Alderdyce had brought in Mrs. Harwin, whose husband had recently passed away. Mrs. Alderdyce had a fondness for sartorial wildness and, on any one day, could be sporting feathers, crushed velvet, fuchsia pink. Jeremy swore that on one visit she was wearing a bowtie. However, registering deaths was a serious business and as such, she stuck to a muted palette. Her black wool coat was long enough to display only two inches of black, tiered skirt and her mottled grey hair was pulled back from her face in a fat bun at the nape of her neck. Very Whistler's mother. Mrs. Harwin looked like she hadn't got the memo on dressing the part and wore navy trousers and a short camel peacoat, buttoned to her chin.

"A terrible business pmoaneeah", Mrs. Alderdyce was saying as Mrs. Harwin read through the documents that Ron had prepared, sounding out the P sharply, “Sam had THE most awful cough didn't he Barb?" Mrs. Harwin nodded mutely.

Ron slid her an electronic pad for her signature. "I'm very sorry about your husband Mrs. Harwin. Had he been sick for a long time?"

"Yes", she replied, signing and handing the pad back, “Terrible pains in his chest, couldn't get a breath. Wracked with coughing. It was a blessing... in the end". She looked at him with hopeful eyes.

Ron nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. "Of course. No one wants their loved one to suffer. And he was..." Quick check at the computer screen, "89. A great age. He must have had some stories to tell?"

Mrs. Harwin beamed back at him. "Oh yes. He led a great life, right 'til the end. Interested in so many things".

"They were easily the best dancers in the Wednesday tea dance", Mrs. Alderdyce proclaimed, patting Mrs. Harwin who shook her head bashfully. "You were Barb! Everyone said Sam had the most elegant stride. He looked like Fred Astaire! Mr. A wouldn’t know a rumba from a kick up the arse!”

"He was a lovely dancer", Mrs. Harwin conceded, speaking to Ron again, and only slightly frowning at Mrs. Alderdyce’s usage of the word ‘arse’. "It was one of the first things I noticed about him. We met at a dance, you know that’s where you met people back then. I was wearing a dress I had altered myself... it had been my sister's and I took it in and added little straps. A sweet little dress." Ron relaxed in his chair and rested his chin in his palm. He had heard thousands of these stories and he was ten minutes late on his next appointment, but he didn't mind. Sitting across from him was woman whose whole life had changed. Her life partner, with whom she had shared every trial and tribulation, was gone. He was never coming back, and she would continue to live on. Ron couldn't imagine what that was like. Her sorrow had earned her the right to tell him her precious memory of her most precious person.

"It was nearly the end of the night and I was so disappointed because I felt my dress had been wasted. There was no one there I would have stepped out with. And I had put my coat on to leave and then I saw him. He was dancing with another girl, it was a slow one. They played the slow ones at the end. And he moved so beautifully. Glided her round the floor. I couldn't stop watching him, although the floor was packed. Anyway, the song ended, and she went one way and he came mine. He said 'Are you leaving? We didn't get the chance to dance'. And he held out his hand."

Mrs. Harwin raised her hand in the air, palm up and stared at it. "We danced the last dance together." Ron felt his eyes prickling, a slow burn in his cheeks, and she glanced up at him. "Don't be sad son", she smiled at him, placing her hand over his where it rested on the desk, "We danced every one after that together too".

A loud trumpet from Mrs. Alderdyce and her hankie brought Ron back to the booth and into the here and now. As she was stuffing it back into her bag, she exposed a large framed photograph of Daniel O’Donnell. Noticing him looking at it she said, "Lovely boy Daniel. I bet he was glad he got married before his mother died. It would have given her such peace to know he was well looked after.” And then, with a gimlet eye, “Isn't it time you were thinking of settling down Ronald?"

Ron returned Mrs. Harwin's smile, bent his head and began printing out her copies of the documents. "There's plenty of time for all that Mrs. A", he said, not meeting her gaze, "I'm only young".

"Pfffft. When I was your age I was married with a baby on each hip and one on the way. What age are you now? Forty?"

She was goading him now. “I’m thirty-two". He folded the pages neatly in half and slid them into a brown envelope which he passed across to Mrs. Harwin, who took them and tucked them discreetly into her handbag. Mrs. Alderdyce got her feet stiffly, heavy petticoats swishing at her toes.

"Don't wait forever. All the good ones will be taken. C'mon Barb. There's a tea cake with our name on it".

Ron sighed a little as she turned on her heel and hobbled towards the door. Mrs. Harwin paused at the desk, like she had more to say. "Is there anything else I can do for you Mrs. Harwin?"

"No. It's just..." She stopped and looked a little embarrassed. He nodded encouragingly. "You'll meet the right one, son, when you're ready. I was a bit older myself when I met Sam, you see, and I used to cry to my mother that I was never going to meet anyone. And she would say ‘Barbara, there was a lid for every pot. Everything in its own time’. And she was right". She placed her hand over his again and gave it a squeeze and then followed her friend out the door.

Ron sat back in his chair and felt it give a little as it supported his weight. Every time, the same thing. When are you going to meet someone Ron? All the good ones will be taken Ron. What's wrong with you Ron? She was as bad as his mum. It was none of her business anyway. Wasn't he still young? Surely he should still be out, living it up? Thirty-two was still young nowadays. Look at his brother Charlie. He was way older than him and he had never seemed remotely interested in a wife and kids. But then Charlie had shown more wit than Ron and moved to Africa to work at a sanctuary for endangered species. He had literally chosen wrestling wild animals over being in the vicinity of their mother's criticisms/loving observations. He was a wise man.

A sharp tap on the table in front of him drew his attention away from the matter. A large, gruff man with a florid face stood in front of him wielding a sheaf of paperwork. "Are you working here or not?"

*********************************************************

At five to five, Meda stood up and pulled the brass door shut, locking it with a satisfied sigh. It was the international office code for 'Home time' and immediately a bustle of activity started; logging off computers, addressing one last letter, stuffing lunch boxes into little cool bags. Ron had three more reports to sign off, so he worked on and the office gradually became quieter, the noise petering out until it was just Meda leaning on the door frame, handbag dangling over one arm, waiting. Next to her a plexiglass document holder was mounted to the wall, three colours for three types of registration. Green for marriages and civil partnerships, red for births, purple for deaths. 

"One of these days you are going to have your work completed by five Ron", she said, making a show of tapping her watch.

Ron smiled, head still bent to his report. "You know I'm easily the best employee you have Meda. I do ten times more work than anyone else. Also, do you know you look like Mrs. A when you hang your bag over your arm like that?” 

Meda straightened, dropping her bag to her hand and seemed to concede both points. "You are my office star, that's true. But you're also the only one who keeps me back from my dinner at night, so you lose points there. How much I love you in any given day really depends on how hungry I am." As if on cue, Meda's stomach gave a low rumble, which translated to a pointed expression on her face.

"Go. I will lock up. I can't be responsible for your starvation".

She shook her head and dropped the bunch of keys on the table next to the door. "One day you are going to be running out this door, Ron. You'll have something that good to go home to".

When the door closed behind her the silence closed in and fit round him like a glove. Ron chose not to think about what Meda had said just then and instead focused on getting his work completed. It only took another half an hour, now he didn't have any distractions. Pleased that his desk was now bare, reports done, he locked the office and left the keys at the security desk.

The Registry Office was located in the City Hall, an off-white Baroque style building built in the 1800's. Ron loved the marble columns, black and white checkerboard floors and the deep crimson of the carpets and drapes. City Hall was grand and felt special; rightfully respectful of all the things that happened under its roof. Many of the lead lined windows were stained glass and when the sun shone, the whole atrium filled with colour. Above the deep blue front door, was a huge semi-circular window featuring a sunburst. Orange flames licked out from a gold centre, intermittently spiked with yellow rays. It was Ron's favourite part of the whole building. The couples who married here liked to have their picture taken under it, happy faces pressed together, clutching each other close. Every morning and every night Ron stepped underneath it and it reminded him of those couples. The window represented their hope, the sun rising on their new life together.

Tonight, he found himself stopping to look up at it, dim in the low light. An image of himself standing underneath it flashed into his head, dressed to the nines. Meda and Jeremy and everyone from the office standing grinning at him. His dad patting his mum on the back as she wept vigorously, his brothers and sister jostling each other for a better look. Ron Weasley, bridegroom, waiting for his bride so they can take the picture. Ron felt the corners of his mouth raise a little then drop again just as quickly. To have a bride you need to get engaged. For that you need a girlfriend. And those were in short supply at the moment. Still. It would be nice wouldn't it?

He adjusted his bag across his body and gave himself an internal shake. Where had that come from? Bloody sunburst window. He was going soft in the head. Ron pulled the door open and stepped out into the darkness. He didn't glance back up.

The next morning, he didn't look up at the window either as he barreled through the door, ten minutes past nine, toast triangle hanging from his mouth. Meda was standing at the pigeon holes, coffee in hand, chatting to Brian who collated statistics for the General Office. Ron threw himself into his chair and stabbed the start-up button on his computer. Meda pressed her hip against the booth desk next to him and raised an eyebrow. "I'm conflicted. As your manager, I should give you a bollocking for being ten minutes late. On the other hand, you being late is such a rare occurrence that nosiness implores me to ask if there's any special reason why you are late. Any special person?"

Ron threw her a glance, cheeks bulging with toast. "Don't start Meda. Buswasonstrike".

Meda clicked her tongue with disappointment and pushed off the desk. "Consider yourself bollocked then", she said over her shoulder. Ron grinned and lifted the 'Position Closed' sign from his desk.

Friday was always a busy day; everyone seemed to want to get their business done before the weekend started. The office closed early at four and inevitably people would turn up with ten minutes to spare, not realising. Meda enjoyed thwarting them. Normally Ron found Meda a very tolerant, empathic person. She was certainly much more charitable with Mrs. Alderdyce than he was. But when Fridays rolled around, it was a different story; Meda was prepping for the 'Home time' code from 3 o'clock, at half past she would start turning off 'unnecessary' lights to discourage people from coming in and by quarter to she was bouncing on her toes, hovering near the door, daring someone to walk through it.

Which, unfortunately for them, someone did. Ron was in the back room shredding confidential waste and even with the machine whining to life every ten seconds or so as he fed the beast, he could hear the satisfaction in Meda's voice as she turned them down.... "We close at four you see.... couldn't possibly get it done in that time.... it IS Friday after all..." Ron couldn't hear the replies, but he felt sorry for whoever it was. Meda was militant about leaving the office at four on Fridays.

The shredder shuddered to life again and snatched the paper as the door behind him opened. Meda's expression was dark. "She won't leave", she hissed, eyes narrowing. "She said she had an appointment at three, but the buses were on strike, so she couldn't get a cab and she had to run here."

"Now that is actually true Meda. Give her a break."

"Normally I'm the very definition of understanding and selflessness but it's Friday Ron. What am I going to do with her?"

The shredder took the last feed of paper and Ron sighed. He had nothing on tonight anyway. "Tell her to sit at my booth. I will see her now". Meda's face lightened immediately, and she kissed him firmly on one cheek.

"Godsend you are Ron. No more bollockings for you ever". She whipped out of the room before he could change his mind.

Ron walked back into the office and dropped into his chair, flicking his mouse with one hand and lifting the documents with the other. "Now Miss....."

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

It's a cliché to say 'my heart stopped' but later Ron would swear that, at that moment, he actually felt his heart stop. He knew it had stopped because he stopped breathing too. And he knew he had stopped breathing because his chest suddenly felt very tight. The tightness crawled up his neck and into his jaw, which he noted was clenched. This bodily reaction happened in a split second and Ron hoped it was too noticeable as he raised his eyes to her.

Hermione Bloody Granger. Her hair was sleeker than he remembered; there were probably all sorts of products around now that would tame misbehaving curls. When he had known her, she used to spend an hour every morning grappling it into a chunky braid or a fuzzy knot at the back of her head. It had been longer then too. These lush, shiny waves fell carefully to her shoulder. Come to think of it, Modern Day Hermione looked altogether more put together then he recalled. The girl framed by his childhood had a sweet open face, her smile made all the more innocent by her slightly elongated front teeth. Her eyebrows were thick and expressive, her skin scrubbed and clean. She wore jeans and trainers, t shirts with little breast pockets and soft yarn beanie hats.

This. Was not her. Hermione sat in front of him, spine erect, shoulders straight across. Her brown herringbone coat was thick and expensive looking, and the funnel neck cupped her face which was delicately but definitely made up. She didn't look like someone who had run to an appointment, that was for sure. She clasped a brown leather tote bag on her knee with one hand, a shell pink manicure visible. The eyebrows had been disciplined and they sat, well behaved, above her eyes. Her eyes. At least, Ron thought with some relief, at least they haven't changed. And right now, they were looking at him in astonishment.

"Ron?"

"Yeah", the word came out in a shaky breath, "Yeah, hi. Hermione. How are you?"

She stared at him for another moment and her grip tightened on her bag. "I... God. Of all the people”. She released the bag and swept her hair away from her face, a little diamond stud sparkling in her ear lobe. A sharp intake of breath, a pause and then, “I'm well." Hard emphasis on the well. "How are you?" Hard emphasis on the you.

"I'm ok. Good. Great actually. God. It's been a million years". He tried for a chuckle and was relieved when it came out relatively normally. Light-hearted, that was what he was going for. Laid back, easy-going, absolutely, positively unconcerned. Shit, she looked fantastic. A little polished maybe. There was certainly never going to be ink at the corner of this girl's mouth because she'd sucked her pen too hard when writing a ten-page essay. That girl was not this girl.

She smiled and he realised what had been bothering him. She'd had her teeth fixed. Two straight white rows. No more bunny teeth. 

"You fixed your teeth". It was out before he had a chance to think about it and when her eyebrows shot up he knew it was the wrong thing.

"Yes... I did. Is it really that noticeable? People say you can hardly tell..." She raised her hand to her mouth involuntarily.

"No... not at all. Sorry. Stupid thing to say", Ron rushed to cover it up, words tumbling over each other, "It's not obvious at all. Honestly. It would only be noticeable to someone who...."

"Someone who had known me for a long time", Hermione finished the sentence for him and he nodded, thankful. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Well that's certainly true. You know me better than most. Or, longest at least." He allowed himself a small smile. "I was always paranoid about them. Just one of those things you always wish you could fix if you had the opportunity. And   
then, when the opportunity arose..."

"You look great. Really." Ron felt himself relax a bit as she beamed at him and he leant back in his chair, allowing himself to take the sight of her in. "Honestly, it's lovely to see you again Hermione. Imagine, of all the offices, you come in to mine. Haven't seen each other in years and in you walk. Wait until Harry hears. He'll be made up".

The beam on Hermione's face faded, she looked a little sad. "You and Harry still taking on the world together are you? Some things never change".

"And some things do," Ron laughed, "Look at you! So proper and elegant. I wouldn't have known you if I'd have seen you in the street. Talk about posh totty!" Her eyes slid from his face uneasily and he felt he might have said something else daft, so he hurried on. "So whatareyadoin' here?"

The unease on her face continued and she didn't answer him. Instead she met his eyes with hers, the eyes he knew from personal experience looked nearly black from far away but up close were flecked with ginger, the exact colour of his hair. A long moment and something uncomfortable passed between them.

And then the utter stab of realisation. Ron's gaze lowered, and his grip tightened round the sheaf of papers in his hand.

Green paperwork.

Shit.


	2. The Longest Sleepless Night

Hermione saw Ron's face fall and she wasn't sure she had ever felt worse. How could this be happening? All the planning she had done, stringent control on every detail. Driving people mad with decisions and indecisions. Ensuring she had an iron clad grip on EVERYTHING. This should have been the easy bit; this was just the formality. This should have given her the least trouble, the least sleepless night of them all. Yet, here he was. The biggest trouble. The longest sleepless night of her life. Ron Weasley.

She knew she should say something, but she wasn't sure what was best. 'Surprise!' seemed a bit gauche. 'Isn't this so funny?' sounded fake. 'I'm sorry you found out like this' sounded like she cared what he thought. Which she didn't. Obviously. It had been years, surely he knew something like this was on the cards. In the end, Ron broke the silence.

"You're getting married". An entire conversation in three words.

She attempted a happy smile then instantly regretted it because it more prominently displayed her teeth and Ron had already called her out on that. "I am". She lost the brightness of the smile and replaced it with furious nodding. "In eight months".

There was another long pause and then Ron's expression seemed to change. No longer bald shock, it hardened into a blankness that she had only ever witnessed on a handful of occasions in all the time she had known him. He would be impossible to read now. Whatever sliver of insight into his feelings had been present before was shut up tight now.

"Right. Well let's get the formalities out of the way. Did you bring your official documents?" She nodded mutely and slid a plastic pocket across the desk towards him. He upended it into his hand and laid the stack in front of him, turning to the computer screen. He clicked the mouse and typed and clicked the mouse again.

"Okay, let's do this. Full name of bride?" He couldn't be serious. Ron stared resolutely at the screen. Evidently, he was.

"Hermione Jean Granger"

"Date of birth?"

"19th September 1979".

"First line of usual address?"

"16 Wildflower Way".

The keys clacked lightly as Ron's fingers sped over them. "National insurance number?" On it went. He checked her birth certificate, passport, driving licence, mortgage statement, everything given due diligence. He was a model of professionalism. Hermione felt like her face might crack if she had to smile obligingly for any longer.

"Full name of groom?"

"Viktor Krum. No middle name". She said it lightly though it felt anything but light in her mouth. To Ron's credit, if he felt anything about hearing that name again he didn't show it. He didn't flinch. Clacking keyboard, speedy fingers, document check. There was only one moment where Hermione sensed some sort of reaction. It was when she gave him Viktor's address. She saw it register as he typed that it wasn't the same as hers. His eyes shifted half a centimetre off the screen, towards her. But it was so minute, and they didn't meet hers. They shifted right back, and the typing resumed, and Hermione wasn't sure if she had really seen it at all. She wondered for a brief moment what he might deduce from this and was instantly angry with herself for wondering. Viktor's job meant he was never in one place for long, travelling all over the world. There hadn't been a lot of time to think about moving in together. Of course, with the wedding eight short months away it should be taking some sort of priority... Oh hell, what did it matter to him anyway?

"Are you ok?" Ron's voice broke her thought pattern.

"Yes. Why?" That came out a little more forcefully than she had expected.

"You're frowning. It's quite terrifying actually".

Hermione checked in with her forehead, found that she was indeed scowling and made a conscious effort to relax. "Sorry. I was... thinking about something else. Is that everything?"

"Well you'll need to pay the fee", she smartly handed him the cash before the sentence finished, "And we will also need the additional paperwork for Viktor".

"What additional paperwork?" The scowl had returned.

"He's Bulgarian. Presumably he is a permanent resident here now?"

"Yes, of course. I'm a permanent resident and he's marrying me. What else does he need?"

"He'll need a visa", Ron replied and registering the mutinous look on Hermione's face added quickly, "It's very straight forward." He clicked the mouse a few times and the printer spewed out a few pages. "This explains it all. Have him fill in the relevant paperwork and bring it in with his documents. The visa usually takes 8-12 weeks."

"Three months? We're getting married in eight!" Hermione spluttered.

Ron's face remained eerily calm. "I realise it's frustrating. But unfortunately, it takes as long as it takes." Hermione felt the sting of this stock response. He wasn't Ron Weasley, oldest friend, he was Ron Weasley, registrar. How stupid she felt at having missed this, what a clumsy mistake to have made so near to the big day. Still, Ron's indifference was more painful somehow. Not that she would let him guess.

She took the paperwork off the desk and pushed it into her plastic folder. "When I have sorted this visa do I come back to you?"

Ron busied himself opening and closing drawers. "You come back here, yes. We can process it and then you will be all set". He seemed to realise the futility of what he was doing and stopped, hands light on the desk. When his eyes met hers they were like two blue marbles, no readable emotion. He was giving her nothing.

"Well thanks for everything. It's been great to see you". 

Hermione felt smug as she stood up. If he liked stock responses so much he could have one of his own. For a moment something flitted over Ron's face, she was sure she saw it. Sadness, disappointment maybe. Something. But then he stood and smiled a smile that would be have been classic Ron Weasley if only it had reached his eyes and said, "It's been great to see you too. I'll tell Harry you were asking about him". Hermione hadn't realised she had been waiting for him to say something specific- what, she wasn’t sure- until he didn’t. She gave a final nod of her head and walked out of the room, hearing the heavy brass edged door easing shut behind her.

Her pencil thin heels struck the stone floor rhythmically as she marched out to the front door. She was shocked at how much seeing Ron had affected her. It had been ten years and in twenty minutes he had brought her right back to a simpler time. His hair was different now, shorter at the back and sides and softly tousled on the top, but the curl of it at his temple refreshed an image of her fingers raking through it when he let it grow long. Early morning, sheet tangled and his handsome face laid cheek down on her belly. His hands spanning her ribs and back, cupping her arse, pulling her onto him as they kissed. Each one of his long fingers tracing hot trails of their own; over her lips, between her breasts, around her belly button, until they reached a low, silken place and brought her to her knees with pleasure.

The pull in her abdomen was so sharp Hermione reached out to the steady herself against one of the marble columns lining the corridor. She hadn't allowed herself to think about Ron for a long time and the sudden memory was overwhelming. But no, she thought resolutely, I'm not going there. I'm not going to let my future happiness and Viktor's and all our plans be derailed by one chance meeting. As she stepped through the front door Hermione happened to glance up at the beautiful stained-glass window, still lit by the building's interior lights. Sunset. How fitting. Maybe this was meant to happen, like fate allowing her to finally get closure. The sun was setting on this chapter of her life.

*********************************************************

"And then she just walks off. No good bye, nothing". Ron cracked another egg into the frying pan and shook it by the handle until the white solidified. Toast popped, and he placed the slices onto the plate in front of Harry at the breakfast bar, an invitation to butter which Harry duly undertook.

"I can't believe you saw her", Harry said mid-butter, "I mean of all the places she could choose to get married, she registers in your district. I mean, what are the odds?"

"That's what I said", Ron pointed the spatula at him. "What are the odds? And for a second- don't laugh- I sort of thought 'Hey maybe this is fate or something'." Harry snorted. "I know, I know. What a load of bollocks. But for a second it crossed my mind. I mean, she looked bloody gorgeous and she was right there, at my desk, after all this time. The Universe bringing back the ultimate one that got   
away."

"Except she didn't get away. You chucked her". Harry had finished buttering and was now slicing into strips.

"Only 'cos the writing was on the wall. You know that mate". Ron poked the eggs, decided he was happy with them and slid them onto the toast. He lifted rashers of bacon from the grill and divided them equally onto both plates. He sat down next to Harry and lifted his tea. "She was never going to be happy with me".

Harry had heard this tune before, more than once, in various guises and he knew better than to argue with it. Ron's lack of self-esteem seemed to generate from being a late child in a big family who were rich in love but poor in time. If you didn't make room for yourself, you were in danger of being left behind. Ron had always seemed to feel like he didn't deserve the things he most wanted. Harry would never forget the disbelief on his face the day his prefect letter arrived in the post. That was nothing to his utter astonishment however, when Hermione Granger, the girl he'd held on a pedestal for years, revealed that she had had him on her pedestal for just as long. Bright and loyal, she had been the third point in their triangle since the first year at school. Harry had never felt anything more than sisterly affection for her, but he had always suspected that Ron had felt somewhat differently. In the final year of school, they had finally come together and for five sweet years, he had never seen his friends happier. Then the whole house of cards seemed to come down round them.

"So, when's the big day?"

"Eight months’ time. She'll have to come back in some point with Viktor's visa, but I can keep an eye out for that appointment and avoid it."

"I love how you always say 'Viktor' in inverted commas," Harry laughed.

Ron smirked. "Stupid name, stupid bloke."

"Not so stupid. Not so long ago he was playing for the national team at international level. Apparently, a great player. I think Gin said something about him moving to Europe to coach."

"What did I say now?" Ginny walked up to the breakfast bar, bobbed titian hair dark from the shower. She toweled it half-heartedly with one hand as the kettle boiled.

"Viktor Krum. Heading for Europe."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Mmmm maybe. Not that he doesn't deserve it. He's a great player, fantastic form all round but it's just more jobs for the boys." She poured hot water into the cafetière and plunged it aggressively. "When are women going to get the recognition they deserve?"

Harry raised his mug in salute. "Well said Mrs. Potter."

Ginny used her own mug to salute back. "Why were you discussing Viktor Krum anyway? Don’t tell me you are suddenly taking an interest in rugby Ron."

"Hermione Granger's marrying him apparently." Ron dug Harry in the ribs, but it was out before the pain registered. "Ow! What?"

Ginny's face remained impassive for a second longer than it should have, and Ron was instantly aware that she already knew. "How is it possible that this is not news to you?"

"I had heard a rumour they were together a while back. And then Bianca White told me they had gotten engaged in Venice."

Ron struggled with the flash of betrayal he felt in the moment. "How long have you known? Have you seen her?"

"Calm down, tiger," Ginny raised a flat palm towards him. "No of course I haven't seen her. I only heard about it a while ago"- Ron went to speak and she carried on- "and I didn't tell you because what was the point? There's every indication he will settle somewhere in Europe permanently within the next couple of years and it's not like they move in the same circles as us. I mean, was it even on your radar that Viktor and I do the same thing? That we are essentially work colleagues?”

Ron scowled. “I was aware he played rugby obviously. I really didn’t give him that much thought.”

“Exactly. And anyway, it was all so long ago. You're over her." Ginny raised her eyebrow at Harry and made for the door. "I'm off to the ground." She blew a kiss on her hand for the general audience and exited.

Ron stared straight down into his cup at the milky dregs, lost in thought.

"More tea?" Harry gestured the pot at him. He wasn't going to let Ron invest another moment in this. It had been heart-breaking enough for everyone the first-time round.

"Yeah, go on then. More toast?"

Harry smiled and nudged Ron's elbow with his own. "One day you are going to make me breakfast in your own kitchen instead of mine."

This seemed to perk Ron up; he stood and slid more bread into the slots. "Yeah but you have the fancy bread. Sourdough eh? What has my sister done to you? Pretentious knob."


	3. Sincere Cause For Concern

On Monday morning Ron found a Terry's Chocolate Orange sitting in his booth. Meda had stuck a Post It note on the top that read 'Cheers Big Ears', presumably to thank him for staying on Friday night. If only she knew how much he wished he hadn't bothered. He should have let Meda kick Hermione out. Then he would not have spent the weekend having these awful moments of realisation. Hermione Granger was getting married.

Ron knew that realistically it was daft to get worked up about this. Their split had been a very long time ago now, they had practically still been kids. Of course, she had been out there, all that time, getting on with life, changing and growing. Logically, he knew that the chances were that she had met someone, gotten married, maybe had kids. She was smart and fun, thoughtful. Fiercely independent and an occasional pain in the arse. 

She had never been beautiful in the obvious sense. Ron knew this because in their first few years of school he had been very aware of the beautiful girls and Hermione had never featured on that particular radar. Not that it seemed to bother her; Hermione had always been more interested in studying, excelling in practically every subject. She twiddled pens into her crazy hair for ease of reach and didn't appear to notice the other girls laughing. She was happiest leaning on the bench in Chemistry with him and Harry, a flask bubbling over the Bunsen burner, adding ingredients that she lifted gently on the tip of a metal lab spatula. It didn't even register with Ron that she was a girl really until suddenly, out of nowhere, it did.

What started as the odd sexy wet dream that pulled him from sleep in the night and left him unable to meet her eye the next morning, galloped into a very serious attraction. Without warning, Ron found himself wanting to get closer to Hermione, without really understanding why. He would orchestrate study breaks that only the two of them could attend, he sat with her in the library, sneaking her toffees to keep her blood sugar up. He started taking more of an interest in his personal appearance; his mum took huge offence when he broke it to her that he wanted to go to actual barber to have his hair cut instead of her usual trim with the kitchen scissors.

The fatal flaw in the plan was probably that he had been a bit too subtle about it. Not everyone was as slow on the uptake as Ron and when their school hosted foreign exchange students for a year, he found that out to his cost. Viktor Krum was already successful in school sports and in that year he became heavily involved in rugby, a sport that was only fledgling in his native Bulgaria. He also became involved with Hermione. Confident, a stand out star at his own school and quickly becoming a heart throb at Ron's, Viktor had none of the awkwardness and reserve that Ron had been battling. Within weeks he was turning up in the library, seemingly having nothing to do apart from ask Hermione questions about herself and complimenting her. Ron thought the whole thing was highly suspicious- Viktor was older and no one had ever really shown any interest in Hermione before- but when he raised his concerns, Harry merely said "Maybe he really likes her".

The thought that Viktor might actually have pure intentions towards his best friend, the girl for whom he was starting to fall himself, gave Ron sincere cause for concern. Yet he couldn't seem to tell her. He tried; it would be just the two of them, heads together at the desk in the common room, working on some project or other. He would glance sideways at her, looking for a break in her concentration, any moment he could use to ease it into conversation. But he couldn't work up the courage, even when the Christmas dance came around and nobody talked of anything else.

Seeing Hermione on the arm of Viktor Krum the night of the dance was easily one of the most distressing moments in his life up to that point. A fitted dress made of gauzy material the colour of cornflowers hugging her petite frame, a happy sweet smile on her face; the storybook ugly duckling transformed into a swan. Except that Ron had never thought of her as an ugly duckling and it annoyed him to hear snippets of conversation in the crowd. "Have you seen Hermione Granger tonight?" "Her dress is fantastic, never worn anything like that before". "No pens in her hair tonight anyway!" "And there we were wondering what Viktor Krum saw in her!"

Suddenly he felt strongly protective over her. Just because she wasn't obsessed with makeup and fashion like the other girls. Heads in magazines, doodling hearts on their folders. She didn't plaster her face in makeup, so her skin always looked fresh and clear, her hair was mental, but it was springy and soft because she didn't bleach it or layer it in sticky, cough inducing spray. She didn't wear clothes to attract attention, yet Ron always thought she looked nice. Better than nice. 

Those few months when Hermione dated Viktor were bleak. Ron spent a lot of time making excuses for not spending time with her and Harry; he was continually late for something or abruptly remembering he had something else to do. To be fair to Hermione she didn't exactly rub it in his face. In fact, he got the distinct impression she wasn't that keen on Viktor. She wasn't dismissive of him, just vague and neutral. When he left to return to Bulgaria, both deciding to maintain their friendship, she rarely mentioned him again.

Which is why this new development was so vexing. Obviously, the reason Ron had been thinking about his encounter with Hermione so much was that her choice of partner was confusing, given their previous history. That was what was troubling him, it wasn't anything to do with jealousy or unfinished business or anything like that. She should be happy, she should be with someone who adored her. Not some rugger buggar twat who couldn't possibly appreciate how smart and wonderful she was. 

Was he being unfair to Viktor?

Nah.

*********************************************************

"And this is the apricot variety of the Warm Wishes rose. An utterly beautiful choice for an autumn wedding."

Hermione examined the single stem. "And we can mix in some red?" Her wedding planner nodded. "Deep red. I want them to be really lush. The rose is national flower of Bulgaria. They need to be spectacular." Helena nodded again and wrote something in her notebook.

As Hermione's phone started bleating, Helena muttered, "I'll just go and get the place settings." She pushed off the table and left Hermione to take her call.

"How is it going?" Viktor asked, traffic fogging his voice on the line.

"Ok. I have picked roses for the flowers. Helena says they're a good choice for an autumn wedding."

"Roses? I didn't know you liked roses," Viktor sounded confused and Hermione felt her heckles rise. 

"I do actually. And they are the Bulgarian national flower. Which I thought would be a nice touch. Your mum might like that."

Viktor snorted. "My mother doesn't like flowers. Anything vill do for her."

Viktor seemed to be full of these tidbits of information that always would have been useful if she had've known about them sooner. Much of the wedding admin seemed to go over his head and, consequently, he distanced himself from it. The most animated she had seen him was when the wedding venue refused to serve his uncle Stefan’s homemade Rakia.

She knew she was partly to blame on this front. She had always been authoritarian, verging on overbearing. She enjoyed organising and controlling and tightening every detail and she knew it would feel good when everyone was able to admire all her efforts on the day. Every so often though, she found herself making decisions based on 'how it would photograph' and surely that wasn't the point?

“Well I’ve picked roses so that’s that I suppose.”

“Are you angry with me because I am not there?”

Hermione considered this and found that no, she didn’t mind that Viktor wasn’t here. When they had first started planning, it had grated how much he deferred to her, despite how much she loved dominating the situation. Weddings were a joint effort, it should represent both halves of a couple and this wedding seemed less Viktor and more Hermione. Actually, it wasn’t very much Hermione either. Since the wife of one of Viktor’s rugby friends had gifted her the services of Helena, more choices were made based on the grandness of the venue or the stature of the people attending and less on what either she or Viktor preferred.

“No, it’s fine. Helena is here and she’s practically running the show anyway. If I don’t make it down the aisle in September, at least you would have a good understudy. She’s had such a hand in everything, she could take my place in a heartbeat.” Where had that come from? “Anyway, I better go. We’re going to look at little pieces of card now.”

“What does that mean?” Confusion on the line for the second time.

“Nothing,” Hermione replied wearily, “I will talk to you later.”

Helena set a wide leather-bound album in front of her as she slid her phone into her handbag and cracked open the first page, exposing rows of place cards in various colours and fonts. My God, was there anything more tedious?

As Hermione looked down at the examples, feeling a part of her slowly dying, Helena was examining what she had written in her notebook.

"Well this is real fairy-tale Hermione. You dated Viktor at school?"

"Yes," Hermione replied distractedly, "He was an exchange student from Bulgaria."

"And did he stay here to finish his education?"

Maybe the baroque script on the white card... "No, he went back to Bulgaria. We didn't see each other for years and then I ran into him last year. He asked me out for dinner to catch up and that was it."

Helena sighed wistfully. She did that a lot and it was beginning to irk. The woman clearly loved weddings, so had chosen her ideal job, but this didn't allow for people who weren't so keen.

"Imagine running into your old school boyfriend and him being an international rugby star. And he whisks you off on a romantic dinner and now you're getting married."

Hermione's finger paused as she ran it down the page. That did sound like a fairy-tale didn't it?

"He must have asked you to marry him straight away if you only met up again last year." God, but she was nosy.

"Yes. We had dinner in January, got engaged on holiday in August."

Helena made a contented squeak. "Now there's a man who knew what he wanted! Let me grab the other book."

Hermione sat back from the table and stared out of the first-floor window. Helena was right about that: Viktor knew what he wanted. Out celebrating a friend's birthday in a decadent city restaurant, she had been delighted to come across Viktor having dinner with his old team mates. He was broad and capable looking, still and had retained his dark Bulgarian good looks. Of course, her girlfriends wanted to sit with the handsome, striking sportsmen so they had pushed the tables together and it had become one huge party.

All night Viktor had engaged her in conversation; they talked about her job in America and how she had returned home following the end of her tenure to find that work was scarce so she had been temping for the last few years. He told her about his career in rugby, his subsequent retirement the year before and his quest to find a place in the sport off the pitch. They talked late into the evening, long after everyone else had called it a night.

The next day he phoned her and asked her to have dinner with him and the following week they had shared a relaxed supper in a restaurant overlooking the river. At times Hermione felt she was doing too much of the talking, Viktor appeared content to sit back and let her lead the dialogue. But, thinking back to their childhood, he had been reserved as a teenager. On the sports pitch was where he expressed himself. In person, he was prone to letting the conversation wash over him.

And Hermione found that after the noise and bustle of America, this was welcome. Besides, Viktor certainly wasn't shy about letting his feelings be known. After the first date came another phone call, followed by another date, followed by another phone call. Soon they were seeing each other every week, often twice a week if Viktor could persuade her. He had many appointments and engagements, but it didn’t ever seem to be a problem to fit in time spent with her.

After four months of weekly dates she accompanied him to their first engagement as a couple, a charity gala. The local press had printed their picture in a magazine and Hermione' grandmother had cut it out and put it on the fridge. Hadn't it felt special, her friends and family clucking over her handsome new boyfriend? Didn't she deserve to be happy after the way Ron had treated her?

Every so often, Hermione would think about Ron and wonder what he was doing. After they had finished school, Ron had seemed a bit uncertain about what direction he had wanted his life to take so he had followed Harry into the Police Service. While he was efficient in the role, training hard and building the physical and emotional resilience needed to perform well, he would occasionally suggest that perhaps it wasn't a good fit. He didn't like the long shifts, working late into the night and falling into bed minutes after Hermione had exited it in the mornings. He felt stuck behind a desk, paperwork mounting, phone ringing, when what he really wanted was to be around people. The human aspect of the job seemed lost in administration.

He was considering leaving the Service when they had the accident, so Hermione hadn't known where he was up until this point. Her relationship with Viktor left very little time to ponder such things, rushing ahead as it was. In August, he surprised her with a trip to Venice and, with a picture-perfect sunset in the background, he proposed to her on the Zattere. She was proud of herself for not allowing him to see how completely overpowered she was by his gesture. At first, she thought he was joking. But Viktor rarely joked, and he was deadly serious about this. His long, impassioned speech about the good life they would have together, the places they would see and the people they would meet was very convincing. Hadn’t she known she was his first love, the girl he had felt things for that he had never felt for anyone else prior to that moment? Didn’t she think it was meant to be, them running into each other, hitting it off after years apart? Didn’t she love him? Because he loved her, and he had known for a while that he wanted to her be his wife.

In the long, aching moments that followed, Hermione considered what he had just said and how she felt about it. Viktor had a succinct flair for speaking; everything was neatly summed up in a desirable package. He was handing it to her gift wrapped. All she had to do was take his hand and say yes.

So, she did.


	4. When The Pronoun 'We' Would Have Included Her

Ron lightly touched his bowtie again and took a sip from his Champagne.  The conversation flowed around him like a ribbon, laughter tinkling like the crystal flutes.  Tiny expertly crafted canapés sat nestled on sheets of slate at opportune points round the galley and unobtrusive waitresses in black shift dresses topped up glasses.  Ron couldn't believe how fancy this was, Meda was already foaming at the mouth at the pictures he had sneakily taken and sent her.  'You jammy git' had been her most recent response.  That and 'steal me one of those napkin swans'.

"You're lost in thought again."  The blonde next to him turned her face upward.

"Sorry. Do you think you could fit one of those napkin swans into your handbag?"  Her face reflected her surprise. "Asking for a friend."

Lavender's cheeks bloomed into a laugh and she gestured her box clutch. "No chance Weasley. I already have a phone, compact, lipstick, keys and debit card in here."

"A feat of engineering," Ron replied, noting both he and Lavender had received another top up. "Better watch this. It'll go straight to our heads."

"Honestly Ron!" she grabbed his shoulder and shook it like a petulant child shakes an adult, "It's Saturday night. Let loose! You might surprise yourself."  Gingerly she handed him her glass.  "Bathroom break. And then... shots!"  She backed off still laughing before he had a chance to answer.  Ron watched her weaving her way through the crowd, a few appreciative glances cast her way.  Lavender had always been a positive influence in his life; naughty, entertaining and up for a good time.  He felt fortunate they had stayed in contact after school, even though they had once dated and suffered a dramatic breakup, befitting of a teenage love affair.  Lavender now worked as a flight attendant for an upmarket airline and made a point of getting in touch when she flew in.  Ginny would roll her eyes any time he made plans to see Lavender, leaving sarcastic little love hearts under the pictures she tagged him in on her social media accounts.  The silent question seemed to be 'why not just make it official?'

The stumbling block was, Ron had never really thought about Lavender that way, not since they were kids.  She had been one of those beautiful girls he had been hyper aware of.  She was friends with the Patil twins; together they formed some sort of gorgeous triumvirate and his head had been turned.  She was pretty, and their time together was always light and bubbly.  She didn't want to spend all her free time reading, she made an effort to dress up on their dates, she laughed at his jokes.  Ron thought it was enough and for a while it had been.  But even then, he could feel himself drawn to Hermione.  He couldn't explain it, he didn't know why he preferred her- on paper Lavender was everything.  She just wasn't Hermione.

When he broke up with her, Lavender cried and spent a lot of time staring at him spitefully across the canteen.  She wrote him a note telling him she was broken and would never be whole again.  Someone as effervescent as Lavender couldn't stay down for long, however.  Like bubbles in Champagne she always rose to the top.  They even joked about it now.  Which was why he had asked her to accompany him to this cocktail party.  She was good company, she could talk to anyone and she had a way of bringing him out of his shell.  It also didn't hurt, he thought as she made her way back to him, that she dressed to slay.

"You are going to give the old blokes in here a heart attack. Honestly that dress is lethal."  He handed her back her glass.

Lavender smoothed the silky material over her hip. "Isn't it fantastic? I bought it today- I didn't have a lot of time to plan with only twenty-four hours’ notice."  She gave him a playful frown. "I ran out this morning and there it was in the window of a little shop. Perfect fit."

"Yeah sorry about that. Thanks for stepping in. Didn't know I was supposed to have a date until Ginny mentioned it this morning."

"No problem. Who knows what handsome rich men I could meet," she responded, distractedly gazing towards the bar. "I'm going to see about those shots." Off she went again.

"Good value, isn't she?"  Ginny sidled up next to him, Harry at her elbow.  "It was good of her to step in at the last minute. Lucky she was in town."

Ron could feel her eyes sideways on him.  "Yeah, yeah. Lucky I know a girl who never turns down free wine. Aren't you supposed to be making a speech or something?"

Ginny grimaced. "Not just yet. Might need a few more of these before I do."  At that moment, a tiny woman with short pixie blonde hair approached Ginny and pulled her to one side, clearly thrilled to have gotten her attention.  Ron took another gulp of fizz and looked up the 'Women In Rugby' celebration banners.

He would never tell her, but he was immensely proud of Ginny's achievements.  Passionate about sport her whole life but side-lined by five older brothers who only let her play when they couldn't get a sixth for three a side.  Still, she was scrappy and determined and had grown up lean and tough.  She wasn't afraid of a scuffle, in fact she ran head long into them and big brothers pulled no punches on little sisters.  She was made for rugby and training academies were knocking at her door as soon as she was old enough to go.  She had played at the very highest level and now, in her thirties, was helping other women get into the sport.  She was inspirational and in high demand for events like these.

_'Hates speeches though'_ , Ron thought as he watched Ginny knock back another swig and turn back to them.  Harry lightly kissed her temple.

"You will be phenomenal. Really."

"Not as phenomenal as that dress though," Ginny replied, indicated Lavender snaking back to them.  "What colour would you call that?  Harlot?"

Ron laughed.  "Fire engine red. She has a lipstick to match, so I hear."

"Looks good," Harry muttered, earning a stony look from his wife.  "If you like that sort of thing."

*********************************************************

Hermione wondered idly if she had packed blister plasters in her handbag.  Her satin pumps finished in a tapered tip over her toes and she could feel a rub, ever so slight, starting down the outside of her left foot.  Toes were not meant to be squashed into a triangle- the slight rub would be a throb before too long.  She lowered her eyes to the floor, satisfied that both feet were hidden under the skirt of her dress and began working her left foot out of her shoe.  The relief was palpable and timely as she felt Viktor's hand on her back, a subtle reminder to re-join the conversation.

It was difficult to tune in though, she had been to so many of these events now.  It was all the same discussions, the same back slapping and self-congratulation.  Viktor was obliged to attend; his career in competitive rugby was at an end- he wasn't young anymore by international standards- and he needed these connections, so he could make a life off the pitch.  He spent more and more time in meetings, at conferences, shaking hands and handing out awards.

Of course, their wedding would help things along.  She shuddered to think how much they had shelled out for the perfect day, with generous monetary gifts from both sets of parents.  It would be beautiful though and everyone of any significance would be there.  That mattered to Viktor and, by extension, to her as well.  She wanted him to be happy and fulfilled, she loved him.

Hermione smoothed the bottle green material over her hip.  The dress had a high neck, but it made the most of her shoulders with cut away arms, fitting close to her bust and abdomen before falling away to the floor.  She looked elegant in the dress and statuesque in the annoying heels.  Exactly the way the fiancée of an international sportsman should look.  How hilarious that she should even think like that.

Hermione hadn't meant to change.  It had all happened very gradually.  The first dinner she had attended with Viktor had seemed like such a treat and she'd gone all out.  She had paid an eye watering sum to have her hair professionally treated and straightened, her makeup applied.  She had borrowed a dress from a friend and worn sparkly heels.  She would never forget how dumb struck Viktor had looked when she opened the door that night.  He hadn't stopped complimenting her all evening, his chest puffed up, delighted to have her on his arm.

So, when the next event came around, she felt the pressure to meet the same standard.  It wasn't Viktor's fault, he never asked her to be anything other than herself.  He had pursued her when she had still worn pens in her hair.  It was her own expectations, her own crown of thorns.  His innocent appreciation of her that night made her want to recreate it every night.  As the social events filled the diary, it became apparent that it was easiest to be groomed and polished all the time.  So now there were standing appointments at the hair and nail salon, her walk in wardrobe was filled with fitted, classic pieces and one wall was dedicated solely to handbags and shoes.  She was more familiar with hot wax than she cared to admit.

Hermione's thoughts on her refinement quietened as clapping erupted and a man in a tuxedo stepped onto a low platform.

"I want to thank you all for attending this illustrious event and for being with us as we celebrate Women in Rugby."  More polite clapping ensured followed by a five-minute speech that seemed to be less about the achievements of women in rugby and more about plugging the sponsors.  Evidently someone made the decision that he had taken up enough drinking time and the DJ started phasing in music. Already high on Saturday night euphoria and the contents of the free bar, it didn't take the party goers long to start moving.

Hermione brushed a sweaty curl from her forehead and watched the hot sway of bodies filling the galley.  The music had gotten louder, people were laughing longer and wider, heads thrown back.  The bubbly was doing its work, eyelashes fluttering, arms snaking round shoulders or waists.  She looked up at Viktor who had been in animated conversation with two other men for what seemed like forever. He cradled brandy in a balloon in his hand, looking immensely at home.  He had always been much better at socialising than her.

Hermione contented herself with watching a young couple moving together as the music pulsated.  A woman in tight black trouser suit had her arms wrapped round her partner, pressing their noses together.  There was barely any room between them, they were young and in love.  They looked at each other for a long moment and then kissed unselfconsciously, moving closer together if that was possible.

Then, like a bad dream, the kissing couple staggered off to one side and revealed a group of four people gathered round a high table on which stood four shot glasses filled to the top with a clear liquid.  One of the people was Ginny Weasley, her strapless aubergine coloured dress displaying her strong shoulders and gem encrusted necklace.  One of the people was Harry Potter, gorgeous in full black tie, his longish dark hair twisted on his collar.  One of the people was turned away, her long blonde hair gathered over one shoulder, so Hermione couldn't see her face, wearing a scarlet dress that fitted wickedly the hourglass curve of her body and that seemed to be held up mostly by spaghetti straps that crossed over her naked back.  And one of the people was Ron.

They were laughing and holding their clenched fists into the centre of the table.  The blonde dusted each fist with a salt shaker and with their other hands they all lifted a shot.  Each licked the back of their hands, clinked their glasses together and knocked them back.  Amidst screwed up faces, they each took a slice of lemon and bit down.  Harry elbowed Ron in the ribs who whooped as they triumphantly dropped their rinds back onto the plate.  Ginny gestured at her face and the blonde reached over with a napkin and wiped her chin carefully.  Then she produced her phone and signalled that they should move in closer.  Ginny ducked in between the two men, an arm round each neck, positioning her face closest to Harry's.  The blonde flipped her hair over her back and Hermione's heart sank as she recognised Lavender Brown.  Lavender curled in towards Ron who rested easy arms round her waist from behind.  She lifted her phone into the air and they all smiled messily up into the screen.

After a few snaps, Lavender squealed something inaudible.  Ginny leant back and exaggerated the pout of her lips against Harry's cheek.  Lavender followed suit, the slash of her red mouth curving into an O that she pressed against Ron's cheek, millimetres away from his mouth.  Ron feigned surprise and then horror as her fingers worked the button.  Satisfied, they pulled away from each other and picked up their drinks, still giggling.

Hermione felt winded, like someone had punched her in the stomach.  Somewhere in the most logical part of her brain she knew she had no right to feel bad about what she has just seen but the selfish, human, bleeding heart part of her was winning.  And it was crushed.  She had to get out of here.  She lightly touched Viktor's arm and leant towards him. "Just going to the ladies."  He smiled down at her inattentively and she knew she wouldn’t be missed.

Turning to leave she remembered a second too late that her left foot was only half in her shoe.  She twisted on her heels and let out a muted cry as she toppled, saved only by the arm of an over-attentive waitress who had seen it coming.  Blood rushed up her neck and through her cheeks.  Whispering a thank you as she shoved her heel back into her shoe, Hermione pushed through the crowds and headed out of the galley.  It seemed to take forever to find somewhere that wasn't occupied; people were pressed into every nook and cranny, all the dim corners filled with amorous couples.

Eventually she came across a flimsy metal door and, pushing through it, found herself on deck at the back of the boat.  The wind whipped her hair across her face, goose bumps coursing up her arms.  She walked to the rail and stared down at the water churning beneath her.  She supposed it would be white and frothy, but it was so dark out here, everything was black.  The city, far away along the bank, was blue and white and dazzling against the sky.  The sun was long beneath the horizon and the wind was fierce.  It burbled through her ears as she clamped her hair to her neck with her hands.

"You almost made a clean getaway. If you hadn't have fallen over your own feet."  Ron's voice cut over the wind and she didn't know whether she felt glad that he was there or not.  He stepped up next to her by the rail and glanced down.  "You weren't going to jump, were you? I've had a few dodgy reactions from women over the years, but no one has ever willingly plunged to their death from being in the same room as me."  His tone was light though he had to speak up to be heard over the howl of the breeze.

Hermione didn't trust herself to speak; she couldn't think of one useful thing to say that was going to overcome either the mortification she felt at Ron having witnessed her tripping or the awkwardness of him being here tonight, just weeks after finding out she was marrying Viktor.  Or the hot irrational jealousy she felt about seeing him with Lavender.  She couldn't look at him for fear that there would be a perfect red lipstick print on his cheek.  So, they stood for long minutes, staring out at the city lights, the wind blowing over them.

The next sensation Hermione felt was the soft fabric of Ron's jacket, draping over her bare shoulders.  He was careful not to touch her with his hands, mindfully holding the jacket by the shoulders and then releasing it so it settled delicately.  Hermione was torn about whether to acknowledge the gesture but, in the moment, she felt weak and lightheaded with Champagne, so she gathered her hair and tucked it into the collar of the jacket, pulling it closer round her from the inside.  She could allow herself this one thing, right?  As long as she didn't do anything really weird like smell it.  Something like that might well be in the undoing of her.

"I didn't know. You were going to be here."  Her voice sounded scratchy.

"I didn't know you were going to be here either. I gave Ginny a right going over when I saw you."

"Did you?"  Hermione was embarrassed how hopeful she now sounded, turning her head ever so slightly so she could look at him in side profile.

Ron stared straight ahead at the city in the distance.  "Well, yeah. I mean.... it's good to know these things."  He paused, and she sensed he was searching for something to say.

"Viktor attends a lot of these sorts of things. We always seem to be at one thing or another, giving out awards, making speeches. There's always something to be going to."

"Swanky venues, free booze, fancy dinner? That must be nice."

"Yeah I suppose". Ron didn't reply.  "I mean it is. It is nice. It's very good for Viktor's career and you get to meet all kinds of interesting people. And what girl doesn't love the opportunity to get dressed up and be beautiful for an evening?"

"Some girls are beautiful all the time."  Hermione closed her eyes and let Ron's remark hang there in the restless dark. She inhaled very slowly through her nose, feeling her chest rise steadily until her lungs wouldn't inflate anymore. She held the breath until her airways started to burn. Damn him to hell.

"Lavender hasn't changed much. Since school I mean."

She could hear Ron shuffling on his feet.  "Yeah, she's the same Lav. Life and soul of the party. Look, about that...."

The wind must have settled at that point because Hermione heard the metal door opening this time.  She and Ron turned towards it in unison to see Harry standing awkwardly behind them.

"Ginny is about to make her speech."  He paused and then took a step forward, lifting his arms shyly, "Hi Hermione, it's good to see you."

Surprised, she met him, and they embraced.  "It's wonderful to see you again Harry. It has been so long."  She looked up into his face, startled to see the beginnings of lines creasing his forehead.  She wanted to ask him how it was they had gotten older.  Instead she pointed towards his cheek.  "The beard looks good on you. And you've grown your hair."

He rubbed his face with one hand.  "Yeah, I guess I'm not twenty-one anymore."

"None of us are.  It doesn't seem that long ago though."

"Tell that to my knees,"  Ron joked, though it didn't meet his eyes.  "C'mon Harry, we better not miss this."  Hermione felt a pang.  There was a time when the pronoun 'we' would have included her, one equal third of their little gang.  Her inclusion predated even Ginny's.  It would have been her standing by the table, part of the happy group.  Not Lavender.  She felt her eyes smarting and slipped out of Ron's jacket, making a show of dusting it down and shaking it out so the boys wouldn't notice.

"Thank you for lending it to me."  She dangled it by the collar and he lifted it from the same place and for a moment, she felt his warm fingers slide over hers.  His touch was familiar and difficult, and she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from asking him not to go.  From asking both of them not to go.  She had forgotten the feeling of them being together.  It was tangible, all the shared experience crackling through the air, so much history closing in round them.  Every promise they had ever made to one another, every truth told, every hurt concealed.  These two men had been the most important friends of her life.  How had she forgotten?

Ron smiled and shrugged the jacket on, putting both hands in his pockets.  Then Harry turned with a tight little wave and they left her on the deck.

 


	5. No Stopping This Train

"ISLA! Like island without the ND!"  Mrs. Alderdyce was needlessly yelling at Clara in booth one, resplendent in a fox fur stole.  Next to her was one of her granddaughters and next to her was a squat, rounded pram, a variety of pink accoutrements dangling off the rim of the hood.  Ron was trying to process a marriage registration, the jubilant couple sitting in front of him, high on wedding fumes.  But Mrs. A's voice would not be ignored.  "Why did you name the baby Isla, Charlotte?"  Ron didn't hear the muted, no doubt sleep deprived response.  "I dunno what kids are at these days Clara. Ordinary names no good for them. Having said that, when I had our first girl I wanted to name her Hedy after Hedy Lamarr; she was my favourite actress. Did you ever see Samson and Delilah? Great film. Anyway, Joe said ‘ _You can’t call her that! Hedy Alderdyce! She’ll get picked on at school!’_ So, we named her Jane, after Jane Russell. Did ya ever see Gentlemen Prefer Blondes Clara?”

Ron mused that Joe Alderdyce must have the patience of a saint as he pushed the documents over the desk to his couple.  "All done. Congratulations."  They beamed at him and took the paperwork reverently, pausing briefly to read through it and take it all in.  They smiled secret smiles, meant only for each other.  Two conspirators taking life on together.  Ron felt a stab of tenderness for them as they stood and left.  And, ever so slightly, a stab of envy.  It must be something very special to choose one person for the rest of your life.

Ron glanced at the clock and jumped up out of his chair.  He had a lunch date that he should have been at twenty minutes ago.  He grabbed his hoodie from the back office and was pulling on as he skirted out round the booths.

"It's usually me who's late."  Luna smiled at him from where she sat in the waiting area.

"Crap, I'm so sorry Luna. Appointment ran on, it was good of you to walk over."  He pulled her into a bear hug, her whole body emanating a strong bright botanical smell.  "You look great."

"It's the face cream I've been working on.  Milkweed.  Miracle ingredient really.  It can alleviate ringworm too.  Did you know that?"

Ron looked down at her and felt huge affection welling up inside him.  "No, I never heard that."

"It's very common knowledge,” she smiled in her sweet, unaffected way and stared at an unfixed spot in the middle distance, clearly pondering something she wasn’t at liberty to share.  At school she had been teased mercilessly by the other students, though Ron was never sure why.  She was otherworldly, always thinking about higher things _, different_ things, and different in high school was sometimes not looked fondly upon.  She walked around the school grounds, her school skirt splattered with paints or pottery clay from her Art class creations, daydreaming and plaiting her waist length blonde hair.  She was at peace in her own company, which induced people to say she was a loner.  She didn’t take exams or studying too seriously, which led people to say she was thick.  She was neither of these things.  Ron had never known anyone who was more themselves than Luna and if people didn’t like that then bollocks to them.

“Where have you been hiding this pretty one?”  The dulcet tones of Mrs. Alderdyce.  No hope of getting out of here without them, Ron supposed.  There was no time to warn Luna not to engage her in conversation if they ever wanted to actually have lunch.  Not that Luna would have listened anyway.  She was the most natural empath Ron had ever met and once tuned into another’s emotional frame of mind, she felt compelled to act appropriately.  He saw her silvery eyes slide to where Mrs. A was sitting next to her granddaughter and, light as a marionette, she glided over.

“Hello there. What a lovely little girl.”  Charlotte looked up at her with weary, red rimmed eyes.  Her face was white and pinched, black hair pulled tightly away from her face. S he attempted a smile, but it came out clenched and taut.

“Are you Ron’s girlfriend then?”  Mrs. Alderdyce was like a dog with a bone.

Luna’s head tipped towards the older woman.  “Oh no”, she replied placidly. Quietly, she knelt next to Charlotte and laid a hand on her forearm.  “You are still in pain, from the birth. The stitches are tight.”  Charlotte’s face displayed shock and then gratitude.  Her eyes glittered as she nodded.  Luna reached behind her to the messenger bag at her hip and rifled in it.  She produced an opaque paper package and pressed it into Charlotte’s hand.  “Yarrow, comfrey and myrrh, with a touch of rosemary.  Highly antiseptic and good for healing.  Steep it in hot water for half an hour and then put it in your bath.  You will feel much better”.  She stood up, Charlotte staring at the package in her hands, unsure what had just happened.  “Come see me if you need more”.

Then Luna looked up at Ron, as if what hadn’t just passed between her and this stranger hadn’t been a tiny bit of magic.  “Shall we go for lunch then?”

Ron laughed but before he could answer, Mrs. Alderdyce was on her feet.  She hobbled round the pram and scooped a little peachy bundle from its depths.  Turning to him, she whispered, “Let’s see how it looks then” and pressed the parcel of the blankets towards him.

Without thinking, Ron accepted the baby, one arm nestled underneath her little body, the other tucking below for support.  Isla snuffled and opened her eyes.  Ron looked down at her, her blue eyes meeting his and he sort of knew what people meant when they said that babies were a miracle.  He crooked a finger and ran it down one rosy, milky cheek and her teeny rosebud mouth pursed gently in response.  “She’s gorgeous,” he breathed, delicate in his examination of her munchkin hands and scraps of fingernails.

Somewhere in the background a flash went off and Ron folded the blankets carefully round Isla’s hands as she closed her eyes again.  “Suits you love,” Mrs. Alderdyce sounded almost sentimental as he placed the baby back into her pram.

Charlotte stood up and released the brakes.  “We need to get off Nan. And thank you,” she addressed Luna, “No one……” She trailed off as Luna nodded sagely.  Mrs. Alderdyce gawked at Luna as if she were a rare bird of Paradise that had flown through the window and started reciting limericks on top of her shopping trolley but allowed herself to be led away by her granddaughter all the same.

Ron glanced at the clock and cursed.  “Hardly worth going for lunch now Luna. Sorry you had a wasted journey.”

Luna gazed watchfully after the two women as they pushed the pram out into the corridor. “No. I don’t think it was.”

 

*********************************************************

 

Several magazines lay open at various pages, fluorescent orange tabs marking things of interest.  Hermione gently massaged her feet through the cashmere socks Viktor had bought her for Christmas as she sat cross legged on the designer-squashy sofa and considered the benefits of favours.  It seemed fun and cute to provide little gifts on the tables for their wedding guests but was it a bit old fashioned?  Should they just scrap the whole idea and donate to a charity on behalf of everyone instead?

She lifted her wine glass and slapped shut the magazine on top.  It was late, and she couldn’t make any more decisions.  Lying back on the cushions she lifted her phone and thumbed the buttons, screen lighting her face.  Obligatory flick through social media before bed.  She scrolled through various posts, sending little hearts to her friend travelling through Thailand, her old boss who had just handed in his thesis and the girlfriend of one of Viktor’s former teammates who was blissfully announcing their engagement.  _Another wedding_ , she thought a little glumly.  This wedding stuff was becoming dull.  She reasoned that was because she was knee deep in the wedding trenches.  She was nearly out the other side and then all this fuss would be over.

Much like her transformation from careless bookworm to refined arm candy, the big white wedding had crept up on her.  What had started as a simple affair with two witnesses and close family and a party afterwards had snowballed.  Hermione knew that it was important for people who were big hitters in the sporting and broadcasting worlds to attend the wedding.  It was gracious to invite them and, with that, came the expectation that they would put on quite the show.  The intimate party with the sweet little dancefloor and fairy lights had inflated into an affair almost regal in nature.  Caterers who had serviced parties held by some of the lesser Royals, string quartet and harpist followed by a jazz band, flower arches and huge light up letters spelling out H&V.  It was going to be in local media and on Viktor’s old rugby team’s website.  At first the sumptuous details had felt foreign to Hermione, she had questioned everything.  Now, when Helena suggested something extra ‘for a wedding of this importance’, she just nodded and asked, ‘how much?’

If she thought about it too much, it felt huge and frightening.  She needed to take her mind off it all and this girl’s engagement, sweet as it was, was not helping.  In a twist of interest, Hermione found herself typing Ron’s name into the search box.  He was the first entry on the browser page, his picture a photograph of his laughing face, a golden paper crown lopsidedly slipping off his head.  She held her thumb over his name for a second.  Did she really want to know what else he had posted?  Not allowing herself to ponder that, she pressed the screen and disappointment flared when she realised his account was private.  Still moving without acknowledging any lucid part of her brain, she typed in Ginny’s name.  She was the only Ginny Potter available, but the image of the dapple-grey horse would have been a dead giveaway.  Ginny had loved horses from an early age, they were practically her spirit animal and it was a hotly debated topic when she was younger as to whether she would pursue rugby or take up equestrianism.  She clicked the image and felt a thrill run through her as the account opened fully.  She scrolled down; Ginny had been active this evening.  She had posted a few rugby related items, mainly to do with the new season and one article on funds being cut from school sports with a little emoticon of a green face vomiting.

Hermione suddenly had an awful, creeping feeling that she shouldn’t be doing this.  It felt sneaky and invasive to be looking at the social media of someone she barely knew anymore.  Of course, she and Ginny had been close all those years ago, at one point it seemed they were continually joking about soon becoming sisters.  Even that knowledge didn’t allay the sensation that this was detrimental somehow.

The next post proved her sixth sense right.  Ginny had reposted a picture.  Titled ‘He’s a natural!’, Ron was standing in what looked like the Registry Office cradling a new born baby in a peach blanket.  Whoever had taken the picture had captured the exact moment that the baby had looked up at Ron.  His face was faintly creased into a soft smile, the tip of one long finger carefully caressing four tiny ones.  Her eyes glued to the picture and stayed there, unwilling to move.  The sweet, affectionate way Ron was looking at the baby was doing something very dangerous to her insides.  It was so appealing, she couldn’t fathom why.  If she was being completely honest with herself, Hermione didn’t know the ‘why’ behind a lot of things that she had been feeling lately.  Everything had bubbled up after that first surprise meeting, but she had put that down to shock- she had been unprepared.

Then she had seen him, all dressed up at the party, with Lavender, no less.  The only girl that Ron had ever seem truly interested in apart from herself and therefore the only girl Hermione had ever had concerns about.  Even after she and Ron were an established couple, Hermione had kept a watchful eye on Lavender, vaguely monitoring who she was dating, what parties she was at.  Nothing overt, she knew Ron would think she was crazy.  But she and Lavender shared something in common.  They were two women who both saw him for the utterly fantastic person that he was.

Ron would never have believed her; even when she tried to tell him why she loved him so much, he wouldn’t have any of it.  He brushed her off, claimed _he_ was the fortunate one.  They lay on the grass bank next to the school sports pitch at lunchtime and Ron would pick heads off daisies and nestle them in her hair and he would call her ‘Lady Hermione, fairest one of all’.  In later years they would lie in her bed, fingers intertwined, and he would kiss each knuckle and name a reason why she was amazing.  When she tried to reciprocate he would clamp his hand over her mouth and say ‘SHHHHHH!’ in a loud stage whisper.  She would batter away at him with her fists and he’d climb over her and started softly nibbling her neck, kissing the hollow at her throat and sliding his palm over her warm skin and she would lose her train of thought and the mood would change altogether.  The only times she ever got to have a say was at Christmas and on his birthday when she would write a carefully thought out card.  Each time, Ron would read it and his ears would burn bashfully and he would kiss her and thank her and set it at his bedside.  Hermione’s card did not sit with the other family and friends’ cards in the living room above the fire place.  Eventually she realised that he didn’t want anyone else reading it.

The clock above the fire place in real time struck midnight and she flicked off her phone.  Rising, she turned off the lamp and padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth and tie back her hair.  She felt glad for the electric over blanket on her bed as she curled into it.  It nudged her into a drowsiness, but she couldn’t quite reach sleep.  Her mind whirred, turning over and over until it was sharply interrupted some time later by the sound of a key in the front door.  She blinked and listened to heavy footfalls in the kitchen, the tap sloshing water against glass, ascension up the carpeted stairs and finally the snick of the bedroom door opening.  She glanced at the clock on table next to the bed as she felt the mattress depress.  She had been in bed for almost 2 hours.

“I wasn’t expecting you tonight,” Hermione muttered thickly. “It’s late.”

“I know, sorry. Things ran on.” Viktor pulled the sheets up over his shoulder and turned towards her. “I know you are angry because I haven’t been coming to the appointments. I vill make it up to you.”

Hermione flipped over onto her stomach and looked at him, a ghost of a face in the dark. “I’m going to be thirty-four this year. You’re going to be thirty-seven.”

She heard him chuckle. “Yes. Big celebrations.”

“What I mean is…. We need to talk about whether or not we are going to have a family.”  Despite the darkness, she knew his smile had faded; he didn’t move but the atmosphere changed.  Imperceptible unless you had had this conversation before.  Which she had.

Viktor rolled onto his back, creating distance.  “It’s two o’clock. Do we have to have this now?”

“Can you suggest another time?”

He raised his hands and seemed to be rubbing his eyes with his fingers.  “Any other time,” he replied, his voice muffled.

“I have tried other times.  You always give me the same answer.  ‘Let’s wait and see.  No serious decisions can be made yet.  Timing is everything’.

“And is that not a good answer?”

“Not really!”  Sitting up in the bed, Hermione pulled her knees up and twisted towards him.  “I’m not young Viktor.  Not by baby making standards.  If we want a baby we need to start trying after the wedding.  But I have to know if that’s something you want.”

He was still next to her and it took him a long moment before he said quietly, “Is this because of your job?  Are you unhappy because you aren’t working at the moment?”

“No!”  She was exasperated now.  This particular debate was frequently directed down this path by Viktor and it seemed to prevent them from resolving it.  “That’s not what I’m saying.  I just want to know what the future holds.  Where we are heading.”  She felt ridiculous even saying that out loud to the man she was about to marry.  Surely, by now, where they were heading should be clear.  Why did she feel like they barely knew each other sometimes?

Viktor rose up from the bed, his hand dragging down her back and settling at the base of her spine.  “Hermione.  I love you.  I vant to marry you.  I thought ve vere happy together.”  She tried to interject but he raised his other hand to silence her.  “You have always known that I cannot predict the future.  I have been retired two years and I am still working on getting a steady job.  You know that ve may need to move to Europe if things don’t vork out here.  How can we have a baby vhen all of that is going on?”

“It’s not all on your shoulders.  We can figure it out…”

“It is my responsibility,” he replied firmly, as though that settled the matter.  “If things vork out, then of course we could think about having our own baby.  But vould it really be so bad if it was just us?”

She could answer him truthfully; that she was confused about how she really felt about it being just them.  That she knew she had never been a particularly maternal child or adult, that being an only child meant there wasn’t a lot of exposure to young children and babies.  She could tell him that she felt truly lit from the inside when she was studying and working and that at no time had she imagined she would get this sensation from anything else, let alone motherhood.  She could explain to him that he was absolutely right, she had known all of these things as he had laid them out to her again tonight; she had gone into this relationship with eyes wide open and had been fully cognizant of the implications of his career.  All of this was undeniable but it did not prevent her from feeling _something else_.  Hermione didn’t know what _something else_ was.  She didn’t know if _something else_ meant that she was unsure about having a baby.  Of if she was unsure about Viktor.  Was it less about the addition of children and more about the status quo of Viktor and Hermione.  Just them, forever.

There was only one answer to Viktor’s question that wouldn’t be hurtful and difficult.  Anything else would open a Pandora’s box of questions and things she didn’t want to examine.  There was no time to examine them really, and no point.  In a few months’ time she would be Viktor’s wife and all that they had planned would come to fruition.  There was no stopping this train.

“Of course not,” she answered, hoping he couldn’t hear any misgiving in her voice.  She tucked in underneath his arm as they settled back down and lay silently as Viktor’s breathing grew deep and heavy.  Sleep continued to evade her and she rolled out of Viktor’s embrace.  He shuffled and turned away and Hermione plumped the pillow under her head and turned it.  The cold cotton felt good under her neck.

She couldn’t work the evenings events out of her mind; the picture of Ron with the baby…  Oh who was she kidding?  The _whole_ Ron scenario just seemed to be growing and mutating.  She was embarrassed at how quickly all those old sentiments, thought long buried, had reared up.  She thought the heartbreak had healed or, at the very least, enough time had passed that she could move through it.  She couldn’t accept how painful it felt all of a sudden, like everything had fallen apart between them days ago rather than years.  How could she have missed all this ache sitting right under the surface like an insidious bruise?

She flipped the pillow again and stared up at the ceiling.  Without warning, another thought came to her.  What had Ginny meant by ‘he’s a natural’?  Come to think of it, why would she repost that picture?  Was it some sort of hint about Ron and impending fatherhood?  With Lavender?  The thought made her feel slightly nauseous.  Her mind raced as she thought about that possibility and she struggled to rein it in.  No, Lavender had been drinking at the cocktail party and she wasn’t exactly in maternity wear that night.  And it would be too soon to announce a pregnancy if it had happened after that.  So Ginny had posted the picture because it was cute, that’s all.  Nothing more than that.  So why didn’t she feel better?

 

*********************************************************

 

The little café was a favourite of Hermione’s; the coffee was always thick and strong, the brownies, brittle on the outside and gooey in the middle and the owner planted little ceramic pots and troughs on the windowsill so if you were lucky enough to get a seat outside, you could admire the early summer display.  Which is exactly where she had placed herself, next to a large gathering of violet coloured flowers, waiting on the arrival of a very old school friend.  She knew he would appreciate them.  Exactly on time, his blond head emerged from the crowd, bobbing as his long, lolloping stride brought him to her table.  They hugged and he sat opposite her, instantly drawn to the flowers.

“Petunias!”  Neville always spoke to plants and flowers with such enthusiasm, like it was the first time he had ever seen one.  He stroked a petal reverently between finger and thumb, as if taking in all the magnificence of the life in it.  Then he turned to her and smiled.  “Great spot!”

“We have been coming here for years and you always say the same thing,” she teased.

“It never stopped being true,” he countered as the waitress drew up to their table and indicated the little laminated menu on the table.

“Americano please. Black, no sugar.”

Neville looked at her and screwed up his nose. He ran his eye down the menu and pointed at his selection.  “With a cappuccino please.  A great big one with chocolate on top.”  The waitress smiled warmly and went back inside.  They exchanged pleasantries, Hermione asking about Hannah and about Neville’s job as head of Biology at the school where they had once all been pupils.  He, in turn, asked about Viktor and her parents and the imminent wedding.  When the waitress returned with a shiny aluminium tray, she set down Hermione’s coffee, followed by Neville’s cappuccino- Hermione noted with some amusement that the chocolate dusting was shaped into a heart- and the largest blondie brownie Hermione had ever seen.  The waitress flashed a flirty grin in Neville’s direction as she backed away but he was more preoccupied with slicing the brownie in half and missed it completely.  The caramel stretched luxuriously as he pulled the two pieces apart and set half on a napkin next to her cup.

“I can’t eat that!” Hermione exploded, as if he had set a lump of coal on the table.  “I’m on the bridal diet. No carbs.”

Neville looked at her with a mixture of pity and disgust and then bit deliberately into his half.  “What nonsense,” he mumbled through crumbs, “When have you ever turned down a brownie?”

“That waitress was flirting with you.”

“Don’t change the subject.  My friend Hermione Granger loves brownies, she would never turn down the opportunity to scoff one.  And what the hell is a bridal diet?  Hermione Granger wouldn’t buy into that crap.”

She smiled ruefully.  “It’s ok for you to say.  You don’t have to fit into a lace wedding dress in three months.  Every calorie counts.”

Neville’s hand was half way to his mouth, ready to take another bite.  Instead he meticulously placed the brownie back on the plate.  He reached across the table and rounded his hands over hers, cupped round her coffee.  “What.  Utter.  Shit.”  Laughter spluttered from Hermione and she didn’t stop until tears ran down her cheeks.  Neville watched her with amusement and then handed her a napkin.  She dabbed her eyes and looked at the brownie next to her boring and frankly sad black coffee.  With no more hesitation, she lifted it and took a huge mouthful.  It tasted every bit as wonderful as it looked and she finished it in three more bites, wiping the corners of her mouth with her thumb.  Sated, she sat back and took a sip of coffee.

“Sorry about that.  I don’t know what has come over me lately.”

“Wedding fever I suppose.”

“Did Hannah suffer from it?”

Neville considered this for a moment.  “Not really.  Although for a while she had an unnatural obsession with her hair and the exact shade she wanted it to be.  She would accost random women in the street and ask them where they got their highlights done.  Frightening really, to be standing in line for a pint of milk and turn round to find some crazy woman trying to pluck a strand of hair from your head without you noticing.  I was glad when it was all over.  I could send her out to the shops again without fear she might be arrested.”

This caused Hermione to laugh again, great bellyfuls of laughter.  “You are a tonic Neville.  It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed that hard.”

“Why’s that then?”  An innocent question but it brought her giggles to an abrupt end.

“Organising a wedding isn’t much fun!” she joked light heartedly.  He smiled as though he didn’t really believe her and took a sip of coffee.  They were silent for a moment. Hermione knew she wanted to ask Neville about Ron but she couldn’t quite work up the courage.  Relationship break ups were funny things; even when you weren’t married, dividing up still needed to be done.  Places you went as a couple, people you saw socially.  Who got Tuesday night cheap seats at the cinema or the little Indian restaurant that served the best chicken pakoras?  There had to be a division because you couldn’t face the horror of running into each other at one of ‘your’ places.  Ron had fared better than Hermione in their division.  At the end of it all, she had walked away feeling that she shouldered much of the blame and, as a consequence, she stayed away from all their usual haunts and she lost contact with most of their joint friends.  One of the few people the division had not affected was Neville, who point blank refused to be cut off.  He actively sought her out every six months or so and they had coffee and cake and caught up on each other’s lives.  When she was in America, he had sent her humorous emails, updating her on all the goings on at the school.  She was grateful he had not accepted the cold shoulder and did not take it remotely personally.  He was, cheerfully and unrepentantly, everyone’s friend.

“Do you ever see any of the old gang?” she heard herself say.  His raised eyebrows advertised his astonishment; Hermione did not ask about the others.  In all the years of their coffee dates, they danced a careful two step, skirting round his friendship with her old boyfriend and their old friends.  He might make a flippant remark about watching Ginny at a match or attending the opening of Luna’s botanical skincare shop but he was discreet enough to take the conversation in another direction if she didn’t bite.  Which she never did.  So this turn of events must be really interesting to him.

“Yeah,” he started carefully, “From time to time.”

Hermione knew there was no sense in trying to pass this sudden interest off as random- they had been friends too long.  "I saw Ron a couple of months ago. Harry and Ginny too. They were at a cocktail party raising awareness for women in rugby."  She didn't mention the scene in the registry office.  That seemed to complicate things.

Neville raised his eyebrows again.  "Really? Wow. That must have been strange."

"No one mentioned it?"

"I haven't seen those guys for a while now.  I keep up with them online obviously but it's hard to co-ordinate a meetup.  School teachers don't often get time off to be social!"  His comment pleased her; she knew how hard it was for Neville to make time to see his friends, yet he never let her down.  He had been a truly good friend.  "Did you talk to them?"

"Harry and Ron only.  And not for very long.  It was very odd being with them after so long.  In a way it felt really nice and in another way it felt... messed up.  Like the time was past and we were trying to get something back that wasn't there anymore."

"Does Ron know you're getting married?"  Neville always cut to the crux of the issue early on.

"Well I didn't go into a lot of detail but yes, he is aware.  I can't say it seemed to affect him that much."

Neville chuckled. "That he let you see, anyway.  I must give him a call.  It's been ages."  He drained his coffee and made to pull his wallet from his jacket.  Words burned in Hermione's mouth and the window was closing for her to speak them.  If she didn't do it now...

"He was there with Lavender Brown.  You know, from school.  She hasn't changed much- still a blonde bombshell."

Neville flicked open his wallet and began rooting for change.  "You know, I think I saw a photo of that.  How weird that you were there too.  Actually," he paused, considering, "it's not that weird at all.  I'm surprised that you haven't run into them sooner.  I mean Viktor played for men's international rugby, Ginny played for women’s.  It's probably more odd that you haven't seen them before now."

"Men compete at a higher level, they don't often mix the events.  It's a scandal really.  Women should be recognised more for playing for their home team.  But it's all about sponsorship and tv slots and bankability."  She allowed her voice to settle into a bored drone.  This was all second hand from Viktor.  While he was supportive of women in competition, Viktor understood the nuances of professional sport and the value of men versus women.

Hermione had quizzed him on all of this at the start of their relationship, when it became clear they were going to become a serious couple and be seen together at events.  She categorically did not want to run into Ginny.  She hadn't seen her since those last terrible days and though Ginny permanently took the piss out of her older brother on an epic level, Hermione did not doubt her fierce loyalty.  She knew she would be an unwelcome face in the crowd.  So she had been relieved when Viktor had assured her- without knowing her real intentions- that it was highly unlikely that the male and female players would come into contact that often, especially as he had now retired.

In the back of his mind, Viktor must have connected Ginny with Ron with Hermione.  Early on they had discussed previous relationships and he knew she had dated Ron.  He wasn't overly surprised, Viktor had confessed he had suspected Ron carried a torch for her when they were together but he had never let it bother him.  Which was surely the essence of the situation now.  On some level, he knew their worlds were connected but it didn't concern him.  He was confident in his relationship with Hermione, it did not faze him that the sister of Hermione's only other boyfriend worked in the same spheres as he did.  That was a connection too far.

"Poor old Viktor.  I bet he gets it in the neck all the time about equality between the sexes."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile.  "And rightly so.  I didn’t think Lavender would still be in this country.  The last I heard she was working as an air stewardess.”

“Yeah I think you’re right.  I suppose they have stop overs?  I’m not really sure how it works.  There, think that’s it.”  He clattered coins onto the table.

“Let me get this, you got it last time."  She reached underneath the table for her bag.

"Already taken care of."  Neville collected the coins and jingled them at her in his hand and seemingly out of thin air, the waitress appeared at his elbow with the bill.  He dealt with it courteously, waving off her offer of the change and insisting she keep it as a tip.  The waitress tucked her har behind her ear and beamed like it was the first tip she had ever received, before lifting the cups and returning reluctantly to the cafe.  Oblivious, Neville stood and began dusting off his trousers, little chocolate crumbs falling to the pavement.

Hermione suppressed a grin and they began their usual round of 'great to see you's' and 'will get another one soon'.  As he wandered off, Neville half turned and raised a hand in salute and she waved back.  Then he was lost to her.  It was only as she got her feet and put her handbag over her shoulder that she realised she hadn’t managed to get Neville to reveal what he knew about Ron and Lavender.  But maybe that was the for the best.  What did it matter to her anyway?

 


	6. Today Wasn't A Day For Death

Ron had been late twice this week so he wasn’t in Meda’s good books.  His brother Bill had gotten married at the weekend, a huge outdoor celebration on the farmland next to the Burrow, his family home.  Weasleys from all over the country had turned out to drink wine and feast on the gargantuan home-made spread his mother had put on.  Plus a dozen or so Prewetts from his mum’s side had showed up as well.  Ottery St Catchpole was not a big place and there had almost been warfare over rooms in the local B&B.

It had been a fantastic day, although Molly had been wittering on about June brides with some discontent and no-one really understood why.  Bill and his new French wife Fleur seemed hopelessly in love and it was the first time in such a long time that he had been together with his brothers and sister all in one place.  It felt invigorating to be back amongst the clamour and commotion of the big family, which was strange as he had dreamed of getting his own place from a young age.

If you had’ve told 12 year old Ronald that he would enjoy coming back to the hubbub of the Weasleys, he would have called you a bald faced liar.  From the moment his first pay packet hit his bank account, Ron had been saving for a home of his own.  All his life he had tolerated invasion of privacy, sharing space and possessions, learning to put up or shut up.  Most of what he owned came to him second or third hand, which didn’t bother him really.  He knew how hard his parents had worked over the years to provide for them all.  But he told himself, as he siphoned 20% off his wages and deposited it into a savings account, that one day he would have things that were just for him.  It gave him pleasure to watch his nest egg grow, adding to it each month, preparing for the big day.

When his relationship with Hermione became serious, that just added another layer of excitement.  His dream of a bachelor pad for one adjusted seamlessly to a cosy home for two; it didn’t cause him a second thought.  Sharing with Hermione would be no hardship, he loved her.  They were meant to be together.

Discussions about moving in together had been tentative but hopeful.  Hermione had finished university and had started her first job, living in the house previously occupied by her grandmother before she had gone into residential care, slowly renovating it.  Ron had been with the Police since he was 19, squirreling away all the overtime money they were getting, living at home but spending most of his nights with her.  It made sense that they should be thinking about the future; the only thing that made Ron somewhat hesitant was his growing dissatisfaction with his career.  While Harry seemed to relish the work, digging into it without complaint, Ron felt his mind wandering.  He missed cuddling up next to Hermione in bed, watching tv on the sofa, pints in the pub at the weekends with his mates.  There were certainly times in the Service when it felt rewarding, like he was really making a difference.  But days spent wedged behind a computer screen, forcing down a quick sandwich at lunch time, or sitting around outside a court room for hours waiting to give evidence, jaw and knees locked from boredom….  There were too many of those days.  They lacked the human element that Ron found that he craved.

His brother George had started a circus school a few years previously and Ron had been watching the business with a keen eye.  George’s wife Angelina had been a gymnast in her youth and what had started as a few classes in acrobatics and object manipulation was growing rapidly into a successful venture involving classes for kids of various ages, plus young people and adults.  There were requests for birthday parties, hen nights, the possibilities were countless.  In fact, George and Angelina were in the happy situation of demand outstripping supply.  While they were most content out on the mats with their pupils, the business side of things was being neglected and they were being pulled in two directions.  They couldn’t manage the website, speak to customers or taking bookings without cutting classes.

More than once, George had asked Ron if he was serious about the Police.  Usually it was after a few drinks at a family gathering or when he was mid rant about never having enough time.  Ron would nod and jokingly comment that George needed to find himself anoth er lackey.  But he had given the proposition more thought than he was willing to demonstrate openly.  The hours would be better, he would be interacting with people all day, especially kids.  Ron loved kids.  Moreover, it would give him more time at home with Hermione.  He had mentioned the idea of partnering with George to Hermione once or twice, gently floating the idea to gauge her response. Mostly she was surprised at his interest, having no access to his inner most thoughts the notion seemed to come out of thin air.  She didn’t criticise it, though. He should do whatever he thought would content him most.  She promised to support him.

However, the daydreams didn’t last long.  Ron was no fool- he knew that the wages would be pitiful compared to what he was currently making.  And what grown man made a career out of a circus school?  George was different; he had been the ‘wacky’ one growing up.  The whole family knew he would end up doing something off the wall with his life and Arthur and Molly had seemed quite baffled that he had chosen something so pedestrian as running a business.  If George had’ve come home one day and told them he was running away to _join_ the circus, they would have been less surprised.

Around the time that Ron was earnestly thinking about his career, Hermione came to a crossroads in her own.  A Professor from her university course had contacted her about a major job opportunity.  Tenures were becoming available to work in the US, there was even the possibility of one at Harvard, and she was very keen to recommend Hermione.  Hermione had mentioned it casually one night over dinner and it depressed Ron how offhand she appeared.  Like it was nothing that she might be considered for this monumental chance.  When he brought it up again the following day and she brushed him off, he became worried.

Schoolgirl Hermione had been a know-it-all and with good reason.  She did know it all and she was proud of it.  She worked doubly harder than everyone else, reaching unashamedly for every accolade available to her.  It had been irritating in class but as they got older Ron felt nothing but appreciation; she deserved recognition for her intelligence and to see her discount this identification of her talent by someone she held in high regard was disheartening.

The more he pondered it, the more it suggested that being with him was draining her of ambition.  Sure, he had been in a good job for a few years, earning respectable money.  But he was forever complaining about it, he was hardly at home; maybe he hadn’t shown enough interest in what was going on with Hermione.  Maybe she didn’t want to overshadow him- the tenure could lead to further, grander opportunities.  God, to think he had been talking about running a circus school and she could be working at Harvard.

Ron tried to let the thought wither but Hermione’s job opportunity hung over him like a black balloon.  The more she didn’t talk about it, the further up on his radar it crept until it felt like it was strangling him.  In his mind, there could only be one reason why she was neglecting to mention it: she was protecting his feelings, she didn’t want him to feel belittled or stupid next to her.  He didn’t, though.  Did he?  He loved her so much, he was excited she had been handpicked to apply for something so important.  Hermione was the brains in the relationship, that was common knowledge.  Ron hadn’t been academically inclined; not stupid, but Mensa wasn’t exactly knocking on his door.  His mum used to say that one person’s success was not your failure and he believed that.  So where was all this insecurity coming from?

After spending a night in bed tossing and turning, mulling it over for what seemed like the fiftieth time, Ron vowed to talk about it with her.  Two nights later they had the accident and after that it had been chaos.

He didn’t remember much about it really.  The night it happened, Hermione had been late home from work.  He had let himself into the house and started preparing dinner.  Eventually she arrived, sodden and dispirited, and he had poured her wine while she stripped off her outer clothes.  She sat on the barstool at one side of the island, cupping her glass while he stood at the other.  The wok sat between them to one side on the gas, smoking slightly.  He was never able to remember what they were talking about that night or why she leant over the chopping board to kiss him.  All of that information was lost behind the roar of the wok as it caught fire.  Immediately after the noise came the flames, bright searing yellow that hit the ceiling in milliseconds.   Ron could only think about Hermione and making sure she was safe but whole picture was black and orange, acrid smoke belching upward.  He reacted, he wasn’t sure how.  Then there was the pain, like flesh being scraped from bone.

It became unclear in his mind after this point.  Later, he would learn that their neighbour had been in his back garden and seen the flash.  He had phoned for help, jumped their fence and helped them out the back door.  When they arrived at the hospital, both were unconscious although Ron had been told Hermione was quick to revive.  He had taken longer apparently, probably deliberately so because his body was dealing with the trauma of the burns.  He recalled the agony, many fuzzy, sleepy hours riding the morphine train.  It had taken a while to realise how badly damaged his arms were, Molly had been keen to keep the truth from him as long as possible. N ot that it took long to figure it out.  At first he was horrified, couldn’t comprehend how this could have happened.  Once he heard the story though, he was relieved.  His reaction had been to push Hermione out of the way; she had fallen onto the floor away from the flames, she had minimal injuries.  No matter how bad he was, he could rest easy knowing she was ok and that gave him great comfort.

It didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted her around for the recovery, however.  The stream of doctors he spoke to made no attempt to disguise it: Ron was in for a long and painful road.  Treatment, dressings, appointments and, at the end of it all, scarring.  With no accurate prediction of how severe.  It would be brutal, often frustrating and they prepared him for it in plain terms.  He tried to do the same with Hermione when she came to see him for the first time, some points he stressed even more strongly than the doctors had.  She seemed scared but she didn’t back down.  They would make it work, she would look after him.  He raised the topic of America and she stared at him like he had grown a second head.  There was no question of going to America, she had said.  They would stay here with their families, she would take a sabbatical from her job and Ron would get better.  It was simple.

It wasn’t simple to Ron and he felt it more and more as each day passed.  Ginny had set up his laptop so he could watch films and he had spent an hour doing a virtual tour of Harvard.  The library looked incredible; Hermione would love it there.  It was the opportunity of a life time and he was the only thing standing in her way.

It crushed Ron that he took so long to tell Hermione the truth.  He persuaded his parents to run interference when she came to see him and it had taken him all morning to come up with a persuasive argument for going to Ottery St Catchpole for his recuperation, rather than returning home with Hermione, the place that he unquestionably wanted to be.  When he couldn’t delay it any longer, he had brought her down on the pretense of family Sunday lunch and had then taken her out to the orchard to break her heart.  That bloody stone bench, he had tried to avoid it.  Some of the best kisses of his life had happened on that bench with her, he didn’t want the memories tinged with sadness.  But she had walked right to it and sat down.  He couldn’t tell her no.

Ron didn’t like to think what he had said to her that day, his brain refused to examine it too closely.  All he could say with some level of certainty was that he had done it for her.  She couldn’t understand right then but he knew she would eventually.  Now look at her, marrying the big rugby star, living the high life.  Expensive clothes, expensive teeth; what wasn’t to like?

Still, it felt strange when there were big family events at the Burrow and she wasn’t there.  Occasionally he would find himself thinking ‘Hermione would love this’, although it didn’t happen so often any more.  Well, that had been true.  She had been on his mind a lot this weekend.  Not that he hadn’t had plenty of distraction.  Luna and her husband had been there, dancing bizarrely and making everyone cheerful.  Actually Rolf hadn’t done much dancing; mainly he was there in a supportive capacity, watching his wife and reining her in when a table of glasses seemed in peril.  Lavender was invited of course, Ginny raising an eyebrow as she sashayed round the room in a black halter neck wiggle dress.  A couple of times she had seemed a bit…. handsy.  The more the evening progressed, the closer she appeared to dance to him, pressing close to his chest, fluffy blonde hair smelling like strawberries.  Ron had thought he was imagining it until he saw his mum’s grim ‘not in public please’ face.  He quickly disengaged himself and kept his distance for the rest of the party.

The night had ended in the wee small hours, the Weasley men- and Harry, of course- sitting telling stories, laughing and reminiscing.  None of those things were a problem.  The drinking that accompanied them, however, was a different matter.  Sunday had been marred by his spiteful hangover and he had slept right through Monday’s alarm.  Now it was Tuesday and he had slept in again.  Honestly, he was starting to wonder if alcohol was worth it at this age.

“You being late is getting to be a habit. Since that’s twice already this week, you have to do the chippy run tomorrow.”  Meda had sidled up next to him and was boring into the side of his head with her eyes.  Ron laughed- Meda was soft on him and always had been.  If Jeremy had been late twice in the same week he would have been typing reports until Doomsday.  Or collating stats with Brian, universally acknowledged as the most heinous job in the office.  The chippy run was getting off lightly.

“Anything you say boss,” he replied, lifting a pile of paperwork and walking into the back room.

Ten minutes of solitary filing later, Jeremy pushed open the door.  His face was solemn.  “Ron. You better come out here.”

Puzzled and apprehensive, Ron set the documents on top of the filing cabinet and followed Jeremy out to the booths.  Meda was slumped at the desk in booth one, a puppet with the strings cut.  As he approached she looked up at him and he saw she was crying.  At the other side of the desk was small elderly man, dapper in a black three piece suit.  His hands rested on the desk, gnarled and bent with arthritis and Ron didn’t recognise him.

“What is it?  Meda?”

Meda sat up and reached for his hand, which she took and grasped tightly.  “Ron.  This is Mr. Alderdyce.  Mrs. A’s husband.”  Ron stared at her and then the old man, blank.  The infamous Mr. A.  What was he doing here?  Meda sniffed, understanding that he still hadn’t grasped the situation.  “Mr. Alderdyce has come to tell us that Mrs. A had a stroke.  She’s died, Ron.  Mrs. Alderdyce has died.”

Ron stood very still, allowing what Meda had said to sink in.  In his peripheral vision he could see Clara blowing her nose, Jeremy was standing next to her, hand on her shoulder.  He could feel Meda’s nails digging into his palm.  Stupid, unrealistic thoughts whirred through his head.  How could Mrs. A be dead?  She was a bloody institution here.  Who would help her friends when they needed someone to come to the registry office with them?  She couldn’t be dead, she had just had another grandchild.  What would her family do with all her curiosities?

With some effort he brought the tickertape to an abrupt halt and turned to face Mr. Alderdyce.  “Sir, I’m so sorry for your loss.  It must have been a terrible shock.”

The little man nodded and rubbed his stubbly jaw with his hand, perhaps thinking, as Ron bizarrely did now, that he could do with a shave.  “Aye. It was a real shock. Especially for our girls.”

“How many children do you have?”  His voice sounded hoarse and Meda’s nails grew tighter.

“Three daughters. Then five granddaughters and eight great granddaughters. So many girls in the one place. The noise. Always doin’ their hair, fixin’ their face. Arguin’ over lads. We never got no peace.”  He shook his head, as if seeing it all in his mind’s eye. “And the joke of it is, Violet, our youngest granddaughter, has just found out she’s havin’ a baby.  And it’s a boy.  The first boy.  Minerva laughed her leg off when she found out.”

Ron suddenly felt ashamed that he had not ever taken the time to find out Mrs. Alderdyce’s first name.  She had always just been Mrs. A.  He had prided himself on getting to know people, allowing them to tell their stories.  He collected them, handled them carefully.  Yet Mrs. Alderdyce had been a presence in his life all these years and he didn’t know her first name was Minerva.

“Ron, could you help Mr. Alderdyce?”  Meda squeezed his hand expectantly and he realised she wanted him to process the death.  The very thought of it sent a wave of unhappiness through him but Meda looked distraught and he couldn’t refuse her.  Taking her place in booth one, he began working through the necessities with Joe Alderdyce.  He held his countenance well, though the reality that Mrs. A was dead was starting to settle in his mind and he was becoming increasingly upset.  Over and over, as he typed and cross checked forms, he reminded himself that it wasn’t his job to be upset; his feelings weren’t what mattered here.  His role was to make all this as painless as possible for the one left behind.  Crying didn’t do that.

When Joe handed him the death certificate, though, he could feel himself faltering.  Printed in small black letters: _Disease or condition directly leading to death:_ and the physician had written Cerebrovascular Accident next to them in tight script.  A complicated sounding name for a shitty thing to happen.  Ron felt his eyes smart.

“Was it quick Mr. Alderdyce?” he found himself asking, though he knew he had no right to demand such personal information.

“Oh yes, lad.  Went in her sleep.  We’d had the wee ‘uns over to the house on Saturday you see, it was Isla’s christening.  Min had been fussin’ round all day, making sandwiches, cutting cake.  Givin’ the kids too much pop.  It was bleedin’ mayhem.  But that was the way she liked it.  Loved the house to be full of people.”

Ron’s mind flitted back to the Burrow stuffed full of Weasleys and Prewetts and Molly serving trifle from a punch bowl because she couldn’t find a dish big enough.

“After they all went home, she made us a nice pot of tea and some barmbrack.  Min liked the noise, but I liked the quiet. W hen it was just me and her.”  Joe’s soft smile cut a hole in Ron’s heart.  “I must have fell asleep cos when I woke up, she was gone.  Warm and comfortable in her chair.”  Joe reached up to wipe his eyes and Ron surreptitiously did the same.

For a moment there was silence and then Joe said, “Got somethin’ for you lot”.  Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out a small shiny rectangle and handed it across to Ron, who took a moment to comprehend what he was looking at.  The photograph was taken in the waiting area in front of the booths, a glittering banner slung from booths one to four.  Brian sat in the middle wearing soft foam birthday cake hat, a prominent ‘60’ badge displayed on his chest.  Ron remembered that day; Meda had sneakily closed the office half an hour early and they had surprised Brian with a cake and a present.  They were all wearing hats now he came to look at it properly.  Meda had a sparkly purple Stetson, Clara and Jeremy’s hats were pointy with oversized pompoms at the tip.  His own hat was a yellow crown with paste jewels stuck to it.  Meda had branded him ‘Office King’ and still sang ‘Weasley is our King’ when he made her a cup of tea.

Mrs. A had been hanging around the office all afternoon and no one had the heart to chuck her out.  There she sat next to the birthday cake, grinning madly, wearing a long cream wrap with a fluffy faux fur collar and pointing at her own hat, a miniature black top hat with a flamingo on top.  Hilariously, Meda swore blind she hadn’t given Mrs. Alderdyce a hat that day and that she must have come in wearing it.  The radio had been playing and Mrs. A had cajoled Brian, a quiet, unassuming man, to waltz sloppily round the room with her.  In fact, she had engaged every single male there into dancing, in between telling racy jokes and quizzing people on their loves lives.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Liam from the security desk ambled in to see what all the commotion was.  Meda had persuaded him to take their photograph and here it was.  Ron didn’t know how Mrs. A had managed to get a copy; he hadn’t even seen this one before.  The picture had been carefully mounted in a gold filigree frame.

“She loved coming in here,” Joe said, breaking Ron free of the memory.  “You were always so kind to her. She would want you lot to have it.”

As he looked down at the photo, Ron thought of the Queen and Daniel O’Donnell.  _Only the most special get a frame._

“Thank you Mr. Alderdyce,” he whispered, barely able to get it out.  Setting the frame to one side, he hurried through the remainder of the tasks, knowing the dam could burst at any moment and desperate to ensure he didn’t cry in front of this man who had lost his wife.  With the paperwork completed, both men stood and shook hands.  Meda stepped round the booths and hugged Joe Alderdyce before taking his arm and walking out down the corridor with him.

Ron sat at his desk for a while, finalising the documentation.  Meda found him staring at the empty waiting area some time later and suggested he take ten minute breather.  He was set to argue but she had her ‘no bullshit’ face on so he heaved himself up and walked out to the front door.  It was another sunny June day and the fountain in the grounds of the City Hall was gushing and bountiful.  The flower beds politely beamed with colour, each neat row of blooms a testament to the dedication of the groundsman.  People were making the most of the good weather, perhaps copping off work early to sit on the tidy grass and soak up the rays.

Ron leant against one of the stone pillars near the main entrance.  He was genuinely taken aback by how much Mrs. Alderdyce’s death was affecting him.  She had always been a mild inconvenience, a nosy bat who sounded a lot like his old mum.  Maybe that was it.  She reminded him of Molly somewhat; overly chatty, no sense of personal space, sticky beak in everyone’s business.  A loving person, though.  A good mum.  A much loved wife.

Ron stared accusingly at the flowers.  Today wasn’t a day for death.  How could it be that today Joe Alderdyce had to walk through all of this life springing up round him, knowing that he no longer had his wife?  How did you ever come to terms with that?  A lone tear struggled down his face, his throat swollen.  No one should have to be without the one person they loved the most.

“Enjoying the good weather?”

Ron flicked his head upwards in surprise and took in the sight of her.  Hermione’s yellow sundress, white platform sandals and matching white cardigan gave her a cheeriness that almost glowed.  She was clutching the same green plastic folder from their first meeting.  Her mouth opened again and then she frowned.

“You’re crying.”

Hastily, Ron scrubbed his face with a fist and looked away from her but he could sense her moving closer, bringing with her all that yellow warmth.

“What’s the matter? Ron?”

“Someone I know just died… a friend.”

He felt her hand faintly on his upper arm, heat through his shirt.  “Oh gosh Ron, I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “Be fine.”

“Are you sure?”  She didn’t sound convinced and he glanced at her face.  Her brown eyes were heavy with concern, lips parted as if poised to say something soothing.  She looked too much like a good thing and that was unnerving.  “Would you like to go get a coffee?”

Unnerving wasn’t the same as wanting her to go, however.  “Yeah. That would be good.”


	7. The Nineth Circle

Hermione wasn’t sure how they had ended up in this bar or what she thought of their decision to come here. She was very certain that her initial intention had been to take Ron for coffee and when they had had started out into the city, she had been keeping an eye out for somewhere suitable. All her usual haunts were crowded though, people spilling out onto the streets, faces up at the sun. They needed peace not bustle. Eventually they came upon shiny railings that led down some stone steps to a basement bar.

"This place is nice," Ron said, the first words he had spoken since they left City Hall. Hermione took this as a good sign and nudged him down the steps. Inside, the bar was cool and quiet, clearly losing business to establishments with beer gardens. Hermione led Ron to a booth decked out in red leather with a high wooden table and indicated that he should sit down.

A lone barman was cutting lemons into wedges and acknowledged her with a nod. She thought about asking for coffee but she couldn't see a coffee machine and when she glanced back at the booth, Ron was hunched over the table, elbows propping him up, fixated on a spot in front him. Hermione felt maybe this required something stronger so she ordered two bottled beers. If Ron had been expecting a coffee cup he didn't show it. He took the bottle from her and took three long swallows, downing half the contents. Hermione took this as a further good sign she had made the right choice.

At first the conversation had been stilted and awkward, mainly made up of Ron telling Hermione about Mrs. Alderdyce. It seemed to lift his mood, describing all her crazy antics, her unique wardrobe. It was touching to watch him talk about this woman with such affection but then Ron had always been easy with his feelings. His love was accessible, free and abundant. He treasured his family and friends and he did not shy away from showing it which was something Hermione had invariably found appealing about him. His openness countered her spikiness. He had been the sunflower to her cactus.

Eight beer bottles now stood on their table and they were halfway through their fifth each. The conversation had turned rather inevitably to their school days and Ron was describing a prank he and Harry had pulled on one of the school bullies.

"Honestly I thought the teacher was going to lose her mind. We got a week of detention for that," he chuckled, swigging from his bottle.

"I'm not sure whether you two were good for each other at school. You were always in detention for one thing or another." She tried to sound stern but melted into laughter with Ron who seemed looser and more vibrant with each drink . She could feel the pleasant lightness of the alcohol in her own body, heat circulating through her veins. The bar was filling up, the room temperature hiking up with it and her cheeks felt flushed. The low rosy light above them gave everything an amber radiance.

As he talked, Hermione noticed that Ron's long arms were taking up more space so now, as they sat at right angles to each other at the table, their elbows were touching. An unbidden thought floated into her head, an image of Ron at school continually being reprimanded by teachers for unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. He used to say that he wasn't meant to be constrained by buttons, ' _I need to be free!'._

It was a habit he took into adulthood; every occasion where he was required to wear a shirt would predictably end with Ron rolling his cuffs. He had good forearms, Ron. It was an odd thing to admire about someone but she had noticed them from early on, even though Ron was undoubtedly long and lean there was strength in his musculature. Today, his sleeves had stayed resolutely down, cuffs buttoned and Hermione wondered what his forearms looked like now. What were the scars like?

"What?"

Hermione shook herself out of her reverie. "What?"

Ron smirked. "You were staring at my arm. Maybe you've had enough beer little lady." He reached for her bottle and closed his hand around her fingers on the bottle neck. There was a pause and Hermione knew he felt it too. The connection felt so hot it almost burnt. Ron's Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed, his head lowered but his eyes firmly resting on hers. She had to get them out of this fast.

Abruptly she pulled the bottle out of his reach and took a drink. "I'll decide when I've had enough, thank you Ronald Weasley." Her voice was prim and jokey and he half smiled, taking a breath. Was it her imagination or did he look relieved? Oh God she hoped she hadn't offended him by staring.

Ron stood and walked to the bar, leaning against a length of it that had miraculously become free. Hermione watched him banter easily with the barman, exchanging money for another two glass bottles. His broad shoulder blades moved under his shirt as he raked both hands through his hair. She could still remember what it felt like to run her hands over them as he hovered over her, pelvis grinding hers. Her small fingers pressing deep into his skin, losing grip every so often with their combined sweat.

He was always hungry for her, always wanted more. He could have worked a twenty four hour shift, literally sleeping while he stood, and he would amble in as she took a shower before work, stripping out of his uniform, ready for her. Drunk with tiredness, it wasn't lovemaking with finesse, but his gentle hands in the hot water made her come every time. Ron was reticent and unsure about lots of things in life, so many of their decisions together had been driven by what Hermione thought was best. Sex was not something he was unsure about. He knew what he wanted, made the time to find out what she wanted and took them both there with confidence.

As he set the bottle in front of her, Hermione felt the slick between her thighs and she crossed her legs.

"I didn't ask. What were you doing at the City Hall today?" Excellent, she thought, nothing to dampen the ardour for your ex-boyfriend quite like discussing your future husband.

"I got the permit you asked for. For the licence. For Viktor."

Ron pursed his lips and picked at the label on his bottle. "Still gettin' married then?"

"Yes. Of course." She drank nervously.

"So I took you away from important business? Sorry about that." He didn't look that remorseful and she found she wasn't really either.

"It's fine. This was more important." He raised his eyebrows. "You were upset. And I can sort it out later in the week."

Half the label had been stripped from Ron's bottle now, paper curls collecting on the table. "How's the wedding plans going? No one dead yet?"

"Do people normally die during the run up to a wedding?"

He laughed. "I thought Ginny was going to kill Mum at one point. She kept making 'suggestions' about things she didn't like and it wound Ginny right up. Harry kept having to intervene and calm everything down. I wouldn't have been surprised if there had've been a punch up over the canapes but it actually all went well on the day."

Hermione winced. "They sent me an invitation but it didn't seem appropriate. And I was already in the US. I felt bad about it afterwards though."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, Harry was pretty mad you didn't come. He understood why but I think he thought you should have just got over it."

"I should have. But at the time.... It seemed too much. It was too soon."

"Yeah. I was kinda glad when you didn't come. It made things easier in a way. Still felt wrong you weren't there though. Like a family member was missing." He paused. "Annnnyway, if no one has died then you must be doing something right."

"I'll be glad when it's all done to be honest." Again with the twitch of the eyebrows. "Wedding planning is a bit repetitive. And expensive. You have an idea what you want and then it gets blown up into this juggernaut and then it's just MONEY. Writing cheques all the time. Sometimes I struggle to remember what it's all for."

Ron knew this was a precarious topic of conversation, he could see hazards ahead.

"I think that's just the way it is for everybody. I mean, Bill got married this weekend and it was just meant to be a quiet do in our back garden but of course Mum wants to invite every Weasley still living and she insisted on doing all the food herself even though it was far too much to do alone. And Fleur's mother was upset because she wasn't consulted about the food and so she was trying to outdo Mum by ordering the flowers. And they didn't even want flowers... Honestly, I think all couples go through it. That's what wine is for. You sit down at the end of the day and laugh about it."

"But they did it together. They had each other. I'm pretty much doing it alone."

"Why?"

Hermione shrugged. "Viktor isn't big into details. Plus he's working all the time so I bring him ideas and questions and he just nods. I should be grateful really. Given what a control freak I am. I should love having all the power."

"But you don't?" Ron asked softly.

"It's just not how I imagined it. I thought it would be fun, choosing stuff together, making our plans. It should be fun, exciting. I thought Viktor would want to help. But he says I know best, that I should pick whatever I want. So now, we're having a wedding and I have no idea if it's what he wants. If it's his taste."

"Is it yours?" Still with the soft questions.

Hermione snorted, swigging from her bottle. "It should be. It's the big white wedding every little girl is supposed to want. Designer wedding dress, custom suits, string quartet. Thousands spent on flowers, cars. The bloody cake is taller than me. A five page spread in a magazine." She paused, thinking over what she had just said. "Fuck, what must that sound like?" She looked at him.

"Sounds like a big deal." He wanted to ask her again if it was what she wanted. What she had described sounded like a bloody circus, surely that wasn't who she was now. He acknowledged that many years had passed, that they didn't really know each other anymore. Could she have changed that much?

"It is a big deal. A lot of really important people will be there, from the sporting world. Viktor has been pulling together a deal for work with some of them. I wanted it to be really spectacular, make a good impression."

"It sounds like it will do that alright." Ron was wavering between being supportive and tearing through the circus wedding. He knew he should be the bigger man and nod politely but they were talking about that smug bastard Viktor marrying Hermione and she wasn't just any girl. She was the girl he should be married to right now.

"Actually, it all sounds like a fucking nightmare Hermione," Ron said now, taking a deep swallow of beer.

For a second, shock registered on her face and he panicked he had said the wrong thing. Then her smile broke and she laughed aloud, shoving his arm.

"I know!" she spluttered, trying to contain herself, "I know it's insane isn't it? I don't know what I'm doing. Floral arches!"

"Fuck the floral arches."

"Yes!" She clinked her bottle against his. "And the string quartet!"

"Fuck the string quartet too." They clinked and drank.

"And the bloody six foot wedding cake!"

"Especially fuck the six foot wedding cake," Ron nodded decisively and drained his bottle. She laughed and copied him. Sliding sloppily out of the booth, Hermione swayed over to the bar, unsteady on her high platforms. Ron watched a group of men as they noticed her standing nearby. One of them made a show of chivalrously making a path for her to the bar, which she accepted giddily. She obviously didn't drink that much anymore, the alcohol was affecting her much more than him and the beer was light. The good knight had propped himself up next to her at the bar as she ordered and was leaning in towards her, beaming into her face. If she was uncomfortable with his close proximity, she didn't show it, chatting animatedly, hands gesturing. At one point, the crowd of waiting punters surged and she lost her footing. Mr. Courteous placed a steadying hand on her bare back and Ron felt his stomach heave.

God damn her, she was going to earn this guy a punch in the face if she wasn't careful. Although what justification Ron was going to use for punching him was unclear. Chatting to his ex-girlfriend in a bar for three minutes wasn't much of an excuse. Ron checked in with the scene at the bar and found that the hand was still on Hermione's back and he had moved closer, body now half pressed against her arm. Sod it, he was going to get it just for being a lecherous prick.

Luckily for everyone concerned, Hermione chose this moment to untangle herself and come back to the booth. In each hand she precariously held two glass tumblers of golden liquid. “We used to drink the cheap version of this when I was at Uni, remember? The barman said it was two for one.”

Ron took his two glasses and sniffed. Whiskey. "Got yourself an admirer."

"Oh I don't think so. Do you think he was chatting me up?" She looked baffled.

They both turned to look towards the bar and Ron tipped his glass to the guy at the bar who was staring reproachfully in their direction. He scowled and turned away.

She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "I haven't been chatted up in a long time. I didn't realise."

Hermione was plump with heat, her skin had a faint sheen of sweat owing to the poor job the air conditioner was doing in the bar. Her hair, once a neat straight ponytail, was coming undone in sweet little curls at her forehead and neck. The colour of the sundress was stark against her tawny skin but it wasn’t displeasing. She looked like a cupcake, sugary and appetizing. Ron felt his tongue dart out to wet his lower lip.

In his mind he could see her rolling her head back, batting her eyes shut, exposing her slender neck to him. He would grab her by the upper arms and inhale the scent of her before nipping the soft skin. He could cover her in nibbles and bites so Viktor would know she was his girl first.

Hermione was demure and proper in public, for God's sake she was a librarian. Watching her head out for work in the morning, skirt and blouse in muted colours, hair pulled back without fuss, she had been the very definition of stuffy and straight laced. But Ron would watch her go knowing that underneath her unassuming clothes was the proof she was far from it. Violet suck marks on her inner thighs, reddened skin on her arse. Perfect matches for the scratches up his back or the bite marks on his lower neck.

From the very first time together, clumsy and embarrassed, to the later years of their relationship, sex had been exciting with her. It helped that he had always found her hugely sexy, all that wild hair, dark, intelligent eyes and sweet succulent mouth. And the things she could do with that mouth.... Jesus. Not just what she could do but what she could say. Together, buried deep inside her, she had the filthiest mouth and what a turn on it was to hear her tell him what she wanted. Aloof and introverted during the day, wanton sex goddess at night. He felt his cock twitch.

"You don't need chatting up. Gettin' married," he realised he was slurring his words now. The alcohol was catching up on him too so he took a long swallow of whiskey, just to be sure.

"Yeah, but it's nice to know you're attractive. Someone finds you attractive." Her finger circled the rim of her glass.

"Are you fishing for compliments now Granger?"

"No! Not necessary. Absolutely not." She cut through the air with her hand, almost toppling her drink. "It's just nice that's all."

"That's what Viktor's for. He has to tell you you're beautiful. Is his job." Ron prodded the table with a finger to make his point. Hermione snorted in response. “Well, doesn’t he?” She stared intently at her whiskey. “If he doesn’t tell you how beautiful you are, why the hell are you with him?”

“He does tell me. He’s very complimentary.” Silence. And then, “Are you going out with Lavender Brown?”

Ron had to take a minute to ascertain what she had just asked him. _Where had that come from?_ “Nah. We’re just friends.”

“She’s… pretty.”

That seemed like a trap. “Yeah. Suppose so.”

Another beat. “You went out with her at school, do you remember?”

Definitely perilous. “Yeah, vaguely. It was only a few months. It didn’t take long for her to get bored of my schoolboy humour. I used to ping her bra strap a lot.”

There was a ghost of a smile on Hermione’s face. “I was so jealous…”

That was just surprising. “Jealous of Lavender? Why?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright and liquid. “I didn’t really know I was jealous at the time. I just thought she was annoying. Always swinging on your arm, laughing at your stupid jokes…”

“Hey! You laughed at my jokes too! I was funny!”

Hermione playfully rolled her eyes. “You had your moments. She was just always hanging around, taking up your time. Harry and I didn’t see you for weeks on end.”

Ron considered this. “Well, I was a teenaged boy. There was snogging to be done. Honestly if it was a choice between sitting in the library and looking at boobs…”

“Showed you her boobs did she?” Shite, he knew this was a trap. Best say nothing, lest he incriminated himself further. “I figured as much. She seemed the type.”

“Ooooh that’s the pot calling the kettle black Hermione Granger. I saw your boobs too.”

“That was different,” she replied quickly, rubbing the back of her neck, “We were… serious.”

“Oh yes. I was very serious about seeing your tits. Made it my life’s work.”

“Ron!” She slapped his arm as he laughed. “I didn’t come here to talk about my tits.”

“Shame.”

“Honestly! Now. What was I saying?”

“You were jealous of Lavender cos you wanted to show me your tits and she got there first.” Her mouth twisted and he had never wanted to kiss her more. All this talk about tits was tightening things below his belt.

“I didn’t say that. But I _was_ jealous. I didn’t know I liked you and then you started going out with her. When you broke up, I was so glad. I told myself it was because Harry and I were getting our friend back. But obviously that wasn’t it.” She hunched forward over the table and the sundress tightened across her chest. She was a little scrawnier than Ron liked; she had clearly lost weight since he’d last seen her. It didn’t stop him wanting her though.

“You didn’t have anything to worry about. The thing with Lavender was never going to last. Think at that point I knew I liked you too. Lavender was a distraction really. Once we started going out, I never thought about her that way again.”

“Even now?”

“Yeah. I’m mean she’s good fun and she gets the party going and stuff. But there was never any competition. It was always you.”

Neither looked at the other, both suddenly fixated on the grain of the table. Ron took a belt of whiskey, trying to think how best to follow on from that. Hermione’s bottom lip was caught in her teeth and he couldn’t help himself. “Why did you fix your teeth?”

She looked blearily up at him. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned them. What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. They just aren’t yours, that’s all. I didn’t know they bothered you that much.”

“They didn’t. Well, sometimes they did. I mentioned it to Viktor once and he offered to pay to have them fixed.”

“Not perfect enough for him?” Ron found himself growling.

“No, it wasn’t like that. He thought they were annoying me. And they were, a bit. Anyway. It took a while to get used to them but I like them now. They look natural.” Hermione frowned and took a gulp from her glass. “He’s not a bad guy Ron. I think you two would get on.”

This frustrated Ron and he wanted to tell her so. It was bollocks that they would get on, he would never get on with _Vicky_. How could she say that? As if he would get on with the man who was marrying the big love of Ron’s life. He wanted to tell her she was bloody insane if she thought that. Instead, he stood up and grabbed his jacket, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. “I think we should go home.”

Meekly, Hermione nodded and pulled her cardigan up over her shoulders. He stepped out of the booth and, on reflex, reached behind and took her hand to lead her through the bar. When they got outside, cool air fanning over them, he realised he was still holding her hand and dropped it. They started walking in the vague direction of the subway. Ron wasn’t even sure where in the city she lived but he was mad and he didn’t really care right now. He could hear her shoes slapping the pavement behind him, every so often stumbling a little. Then they stopped. He wheeled round and watched as she walked over to the derelict building on the pavement and leant against it, adjusting her shoe.

“Having high heel regret?” She didn’t answer him, continued to fiddle with the strap. “Look if this is about Viktor..”

“You don’t have to be mean about him. I know you never really liked him but I meant what I said. He isn’t a bad guy.”

God, she was infuriating. “Well then what’s up? Cos something’s up. He’s this great guy who you love so much. But at the cocktail party you spent the whole night starting into space while he talked shop. You’re trying and failing to be excited about getting married and he’s nowhere to be found. You allow yourself to be chatted up by some random knob at the bar so you can feel attractive, even though you have a fiancé who should be making you feel attractive every single day. So what is it?” Ron suddenly felt very sober.

The impact of what he said splashed over Hermione’s face; her mouth made a little O of surprise at his summation. Ron felt the fury in him die and was beginning to regret what he’d said when she spoke. “It’s just sometimes… Sometimes I feel like I don’t really know him. That he doesn’t really know me.” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the chilled dark wash over her. Ron stood where he was, watching her. “When he asked me to marry him, we’d only been together eight months. It was completely out of the blue, I had no idea he was planning it. I had no notion of marrying him.”

Ron’s words felt hard in his mouth as he bit out, “Well normally in cases like that, the person being proposed to says no. Not yes.”

“I know that!” she erupted, voice getting louder. “Jesus, Ron. I know that. But you weren’t there. The whole set up… it was perfectly arranged. Romantic, picturesque. It was a fairy tale proposal. And he made it sound so great.” Voice up another octave. “And suddenly I’m wondering why I was going to say no. Why would I turn down this charming, lovely man who wants to marry me? Why would it matter how long we’d been together? He was serious about me, he loved me.”

“And do you love him?” This was not a question Ron wanted to know the answer to, really. Either way, the outcome was shitty.

“Yes. I do love him. I love him but I’m not sure if it’s the kind of love that keeps people together forever.”

Ron crossed the pavement in three long strides and stood in front of her. “How can you not know? Hermione, you’re getting married in a few weeks. How can you not know?”

“Because it doesn’t feel the same.” It came out in a whisper but he heard it clearly. She lifted her head, eyes dark with something it took him a second to recognise. “I know what that sort of love feels like. And it doesn’t feel the same.”

It took exactly four seconds for Ron to cup her little face in his big hands and press his mouth onto hers. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen after that, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. A slap upside the head would probably be the best option for both of them, he knew. However, when a slap wasn’t forthcoming, he was relieved. When she whimpered and leant closer to him, he was surprised; it was good for his ego, if not good for his heart. He pressed her against the brick and kissed her fervently, letting go of her face and allowing his hand to wander. It came to rest on the curve of her arse and when he squeezed the flesh she groaned.

A few moments went by before he realised there was something wrong. He was kissing her hard, and she was taking it, but she wasn’t giving anything back. He had pressed Hermione against plenty of walls and he knew how it was supposed to feel. His body retained the memory of those times, pulling his hair, clawing at him, as though she was trying to climb inside him. She was a hellcat, Hermione. Not some soppy girl who just stood there and got kissed.

He registered her hands, delicately pressed on his chest, arms creating a demure barrier between them and he pushed against her firmly but there was no push back. No attack.

Ron took a step back and took her in. Her lips were swollen and she looked dazed; at some point she had lost her hair tie and her curls were bobbing around her head. She put a hand up to her forehead and then dropped it. When she met his gaze, her unhappy face told him everything he needed to know.

“Well that was fucked up.”

Her voice was hoarse as she replied. “I know, I don’t know what came over me…”

“That’s not what I meant. You. You’re different. You even kiss differently.”

Her eyes flicked over his face in confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Where’s your spark Hermione? Where’s the fire? There are two ways that could have gone and it was neither.” She stared at him. “Either Hermione Granger would have walloped me up and down this street for doing that. Or she would have kissed me and meant it. You didn’t wallop me and you didn’t mean it.”

“I did…” She looked positively wretched now, pulling at the sleeves of her cardigan.

“Nah, you didn’t,” Ron countered, feeling stupid now. For a moment she’d almost had him. Reeling him in with all that talk about her shitty wedding, being jealous of Lavender. That thing at the end, though: _’It doesn’t feel the same’._ That was the bloody kicker. She’d said that and he knew he would follow her anywhere, to the ninth circle of hell if she’d have asked him. It was her kiss that gave her away. It was the ninth circle made real. Treachery.

“You don’t know what you want Hermione. You’re marrying a guy you don’t even know and you’re kissing your old boyfriend in a back alley. You can’t have it every way.” He wanted her to speak, get furious with him. Nobody could wind her up like he could, he had always possessed the dubious skill of being able to infuriate her more than anyone. He wanted to see it in her eyes so he could prove to himself that it had been real. That it wasn’t a sad play by an old flame who had cold feet. She couldn’t reduce herself to that. Yet here she was, silent in the darkness, eyes snapping round him as if looking for an escape. Who was she?

“I think we’re done here.” She nodded. He turned to walk away but stopped himself and speaking to the pavement, he said, “Are you able to get home?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her speech was thick but he didn’t think she was crying. She circled round and started walking up the street, all clumsiness and drunken ambling gone, now long, purposeful strides to get away from him. He watched her for a bit and then slowly followed behind, far enough back that if she turned she might not see him. But she didn’t turn and when she hailed a cab and stepped up into it, he followed its progress until it merged with the traffic.

 


	8. Hopeless  Case

The July heat sweltered, the heat rising from the pavement in shimmers. Hermione had carefully chosen their meeting place, a green metal bench underneath two oak trees. It was set slightly off the path so it afforded some privacy and the heavy green foliage provided welcome shade.

Harry arrived first and he sat, not enjoying his rage. He had played devil's advocate over the years for Hermione and Ron; bickering was their forte. He didn't have anything against it really; maybe when they were younger and he didn't understand it- he used to wonder why they couldn't just get on. As they got older, it became clear to him that they needed it. It had been their courtship and their release.

What he couldn't tolerate, and absolutely wouldn't, was the deep hurt he had witnessed when he had gone to see Ron the previous weekend. It had been a struggle to even get in to see him, Ron had been so reticent. Harry had known there was something amiss though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ron's texts had been a little dull, humourless for someone with the greatest sense of humour.

Harry was due on shift that afternoon, there wasn't really time to go over and check things out, but he went. He would always go. Ron was his brother, if he was suffering Harry wanted to know why. Since they had first met on the bus to school, Ron had stepped up for him in every difficult situation he had ever gone through; he had not faced a single obstacle that his best friend hadn't also faced. Ron was fearless in that respect. He had his share of weaknesses though and here came the most potent of them, wearing a plain cotton t shirt and skirt, sunglasses shading her eyes.

When he had contacted her on social media demanding that they met up she hadn't seemed surprised. In fact her tone had been practically subservient, like she wanted him to yell and get mad at her. Like she felt she deserved it. Which she did.

She sat next to him on the bench and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were small, her face was harsh in the bright light. At least she had the grace to look like hell.

"What are you playing at?" Harry got right to the point and, although Hermione expected nothing less, it still stung slightly.

"What do you mean?" Buying herself some time to think.

"You know what I'm talking about. I saw Ron last weekend. He is beyond messed up about whatever it is that went on between the two of you. You've confused the hell out of him. So I ask you again: what are you playing at?"

She hated him to be angry with her, he had every right, but it felt so painful. "I know. Things got out of hand. I just wanted to comfort him, he seemed so upset about the old lady dying. I just wanted to help him. Please believe that I had good intentions. I know it doesn't seem like it now."

Harry stared ahead, his mouth a straight line. Hermione had always known deep down that she played second fiddle to Ron for Harry's affections. It was imperceptible to everyone at school- they seemed like a perfect trio, complementing each other and practically interchangeable. But really there was no competition. Harry was furiously protective of Ron; Ron had been the first person who had befriended Harry when they started school. Harry lived in a difficult care situation following the death of his parents when he was very young. He was naive, had nothing of his own and no-one to call a friend. Ron had bounded up to him on the first day, friendly, ready to divide up his lunch, capable of being open, honest and loving, all the things that Harry was missing from his life.

They had forged a special connection from that moment and Ron proved himself a most faithful ally; they faced their share of school bullies, of difficult teachers and of challenging times and Ron stood next to Harry consistently. Hermione was there too, it was just a different relationship.

The point was, she knew Harry was not going to take this lightly. Ron's happiness was paramount.

"I'm confused too. Seeing him again after all this time. It brought up a lot of feelings. Things I thought I had dealt with. But I didn't stop loving him. How could I? You know how hard that would be." She was looking for empathy but Harry's eyes flashed darkly.

"You should have tried harder. You're getting married in two months."

She cradled her forehead in her hands. "I know. You know I know that. It is constantly on my mind."

"Clearly not all the time," Harry bit back and it felt like a slap.

Hermione took a long, shaky breath. Sweat beaded on her back and rolled lazily downwards.

“You know, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. So in February I went to the Registry Office…”

“Not then,” Harry interrupted impatiently, raking a hand through his hair. “Start from when you broke up.”

“But surely you know how that happened?” Hermione sounded confused.

“Not really. I know that things were difficult after the accident but I had no idea how bad until Ron told me he had ended it with you. I tried to talk to him about it but he wasn’t exactly explicit. And I tried to talk to you about it but you just disappeared and avoided my calls. I don’t want to interfere and if you don’t want to tell then that’s fine but I’m trying to make sense of all this and it feels like I have half the story.”

Hermione frowned, not having anticipated that Ron would have kept all this to himself.

“After the accident, in the hospital, there was just so much to think about. They were talking about treatment for Ron’s burns and it was just a blur of doctors and nurses. And then Ron’s entire family were there all the time. There wasn’t really any time to talk about what had happened.” In her minds’ eye, Hermione thought back to those first weeks of mayhem.

She could see herself sitting upright in the hospital bed, an IV cannula in her hand and a bandage on her arm. Her parents fussing over her and arranging the cards and gifts that her friends and work colleagues had sent. There was a silver balloon in the shape of a star at the end of the bed that screamed GET WELL SOON! All she wanted to do was see Ron but people kept fobbing her off. She wasn’t well enough, he was seeing the doctor right now, his family were in with him. Normally, Hermione wasn’t one to be easily dissuaded but her head ached and she felt woozy too much of the time to argue. For the first few days Ron’s status was MIA. What did she establish was what had happened to them.

Her memory was muddled, especially concerning the time after the fire had taken hold. She knew she had felt a strong physical force push her hard on the chest as the wok ignited and she had fallen back, hitting her head on the stone tiles. When, under oppressive questioning, her mother revealed the extent of the injury on Ron’s arms, Hermione knew that the pressure on her chest had been him pushing her out of the way. He had stopped her from being horribly burned and he had taken the brunt of the damage.

That knowledge lay heavy on Hermione through the coming days and nights. On some level it still lay heavy on her. When she was eventually allowed to see him, the sight of him bandaged wrist to shoulder was almost too much to bear. She tried hard not to let the anguish show on her face but she could see it reflected in his. Though he was groggy, swimming in morphine, Ron was concerned with how she was doing. Did her head hurt? Was she being looked after? Eating well? He seemed happy to see her, though he soon faded into unconsciousness. Molly said he had been doing that a lot. Little things took it out of him.

“He was in such pain all the time Harry. You remember how it was”. Harry nodded. The heavy pain relief pressed Ron into sedation most of the time, which seemed bad until it began to wear off. Hermione would never forget Ron’s cries of agony, of his constant shifting in the bed because no position was truly comfortable, of silent tears crawling down the side of his face as he stared straight up and refused to look at anyone. Those closest to Ron knew that the times when he was silent were the times he was suffering the most.

“And I was discharged home after a few days so it became even harder to see him. I would go to the hospital and Arthur would say he was with the physio or he was in the middle of a dressing change. I know he was keeping me away. I tried to keep up with it all but I clearly wasn’t doing a good job.”

“I think you are being unfair on yourself,” Harry interjected reasonably. “You were dealing with a lot. Plus you were injured too.”

Hermione touched the scar on her left forearm. It had taken her a long time to display it openly, she felt it was ugly and unsightly. But when she thought like that, the guilt set in. While she had walked away with only one minor scar on one arm, Ron had been horrifically injured. Deep burns wound like ropes around both arms, requiring constant tending. When he did allow her to visit him, he would be falsely cheerful, trying to disguise the pain and the effort it was taking to sit with her.

"I thought it would be better when he was discharged. I had it all worked out in my head. I would take time off work to take care of him, he could move in with me. We were practically living together anyway..."

"But Molly had other ideas."

Hermione nodded wearily. "Not that I blame her. She wanted to stay close to him, keep him safe. I couldn't argue with that. I had been with him when he had the accident, I could see how she might think it was my fault somehow...."

"When _you both_ had the accident. And no one blamed you Hermione. I can tell you that right now."

"I blamed myself. The day he was discharged Molly and Arthur took him back to Ottery St Catchpole.... I think I knew then that things were changing. The night before I had gone to see him and he gave me this big talk about how I should go back to work, how I could come down on the weekends and see him. No need to worry, he would be back home soon. But I knew, I could feel something had shifted."

"Ginny told me it was quite difficult when he went home. Small house, lots of coming and going."

"Honestly Harry, sometimes it was like a three ringed circus. I know why they wanted to bring him home but it made no sense. He was constantly travelling up to the city for hospital appointments. Then at home his bedroom was stuffed with dressing packs, gauze, bottles of sterile water. It felt like the walls were coming in on you."

"I used to meet up with him when he was here for appointments. He was quieter than usual sometimes. I think his mum did his head in. But i never thought...." Harry trailed off pensively.

"You never thought he would break up with me?" Harry nodded once curtly. Hermione sighed and stared out at the green. A young woman was kicking a ball with a toddler. Two girls were performing handstands. A couple lay intertwined on a rug. "Yeah, that was a shock."

"Look, you don't have to tell me about it. It must have been really painful and reliving it must be hard."

"It's ok," she responded, her eyes still trained on the happy couple on the rug. "I went down to Ottery St Catchpole for Sunday lunch and we went for a walk afterwards. There's a little stone bench in the orchard, do you know it?"

Harry grinned, forgetting for a moment he was furious. "Yeah. Ginny and I used to meet there sometimes when we were avoiding Molly."

Hermione returned his smile. "Yes we did too. I expect the rest of the boys used it over the years as well. Lots of fond memories." Her smile melted away. "I was naive really. Didn't see it coming. I should have... When Ron made a point of asking me for lunch and then getting me alone. I should have suspected what was about to happen. I felt so stupid afterwards.... I thought he was going to tell me he was moving back. They had been talking about new treatment options, to help with the scars, which would mean he would need to be closer to the hospital. I was waiting for him to say he was coming home with me."

She laughed mirthlessly at her innocence. Glancing at Harry she could see how uncomfortable the conversation's direction was making him. He had always been quietly accepting of his two best friends falling in love. Another person might have taken it badly or personally; the three of them had always been so close and now Ron and Hermione were making a new connection that had no place for him. But if he felt that way, even for a second, he didn't show it. He took the new development in his stride, which Hermione felt was a true measure of how much he cared about them. He just wanted his friends to be happy.

"Anyway, I won't bore you with the details of what Ron said to me," she continued, feeling damp and uncomfortable in the heat. "The gist of it was, he felt he was holding me back. I had been recommended for a few tenures around the time of the accident, one from Harvard. We had talked about what would happen if we started a new life in America. But honestly it was just talking. I didn't take it seriously. We were happy here, we had our families and our jobs. I was never going to accept any of those offers. And when I got out of hospital, I turned them all down flat."

"But Ron saw it as him keeping me from reaching my potential. He had clearly been thinking about it for a while- he had had a lot of time to ruminate while he was recuperating. It didn't matter what I said. We must have sat out there for hours arguing about it. I couldn't make him understand and it just got more and more desperate." Hermione felt the tears on her cheeks before she registered her brimming eyes. She scrubbed her face with the heel of both hands and sniffed. "Eventually, all this old stuff started coming out. Maybe he had never been good enough... he probably couldn't make me happy long term... good that this had happened now before we had made any serious decisions about our future. It was all nonsense but it didn't matter. He had made his mind up."

Harry exhaled long and low, hands pressed together as if in prayer. "He didn't really talk about it. He sort of made it sound like you guys had come to a mutual decision. Like you agreed."

Hermione's head whipped round on her neck. "Never! I never agreed with him. He tried to make me go along with it but I kept saying no. Didn’t I think I was too smart to be content with just him forever? Hadn't he been the reason I had given up my dream to move to America? It was insane. At one point I thought the pain relief had meddled with his head."

"It _was_ a funny time," Harry conceded, "Sometimes he seemed okay and the other times he seemed to be carrying so much on his shoulders. And I didn't get down to see him as much I should have. Work and life... If I had've known what happened, maybe I could have done something."

"There was nothing you could have done Harry. It was done long before he actually told me. I think he had decided weeks before." She turned to Harry and placed a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry for the way I behaved after that. Just disappearing. I couldn't deal with it and I didn't want to see anyone. But I treated people badly. Especially you."

"I'm not going to lie. It was.... confusing. I felt like I had done something wrong."

"I know. I see that now. I suppose at the time I thought you would take Ron's side. How could you have stayed friends with us both?"

"That wasn’t your decision to make," Harry replied hotly, "I'm your friend too. Well, I was."

There was no underestimating how much that hurt. Although they were no longer in contact, could not rationally call themselves friends any more, Hermione still thought of Harry in those terms. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she couldn't let go of that friendship. It had meant so much to her and until recently, she hadn't realised how much psychological work she had put into minimising it in her mind. All these years she had talked it down in her head, made herself believe that it was a relationship that could end without huge fallout. Much like her relationship with Ron, somewhere along the way she had gravely miscalculated.

"I realise what I did was wrong," she started, struggling to keep her voice level, "I made a mistake and I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about it. But I was so hurt Harry. So upset. I just wanted to get away. I got another call from America four weeks later and I booked a plane ticket the same day. I couldn't stick around and be reminded of everything."

Harry stared at the green intently, as if thinking over what she had said. "What happened with Ron last week?"

_More mistakes_ , Hermione thought.

"I went to the Registry Office with Viktor's permit. Ron was upset because someone they knew well in the office had died. The lady's husband was there, it was really heart-breaking actually. And he seemed so shocked and sort of lost. So I asked him if he wanted to take a walk and he said yes and we found ourselves in a bar." The grimace on Harry's face told her how he felt about that particular choice. "I know now it was stupid but it seemed harmless at the time." Harry shook his head slightly. "It did! Anyway obviously now I know it was the wrong thing to do. Ron was talking about old times, we were drinking, I was trying to be helpful."

Harry snorted. "Were you really? Because it seems like you were taking advantage of him when he was vulnerable."

It was Hermione's turn to grimace. "I know it looks like that. But I swear, I'll swear on anything. Harry look at me." She reached over and grabbed him by the forearms, twisting his body so he faced her. "I didn't do this to mess with Ron or to win him back or anything sinister. What happened, happened because I loved him. Christ, I probably still love him really though I'm too chicken to admit it. He was so precious to me for so long and seeing him sad, talking about the past. It just brought everything to a head."

She let him go and he stayed in position, his eyes hard on her face. "You have really fucked things up."

"I know."

"So what do you intend to do about it?"

Hermione turned away from him and brought her hands up to cup her face, elbows on knees. "I have no idea," she whispered.

They sat next to each other for a long time, watching the activity on the green. A mixed group of men and women had replaced the girls doing handstands and they were lolling dozily on the grass next to a pile of books. A park keeper was knelt head first in a huge rhododendron, busily snipping. Women with prams were fussing at the babies in them, applying sun screen, hats and shade as required.

Hermione was waiting for Harry to speak and just when she had given up hope that he would, he rose to his feet abruptly and looked down at her. "Ron can't take more heartbreak, Hermione. Go marry Viktor and leave him alone. Don't you think that's best?"

She felt a huge sob well up from her belly and it took every drop of strength in her to suppress it. She gulped it down and raised her eyes to him. "Do you think that's what's best?"

Harry shook his head. "Honestly? I have no idea. I just want my best friend to stop hurting. Isn't you being in the picture, Mrs. Viktor Krum, isn't that going to be upsetting for him? Surely there is no scenario where that is going to work."

He was right, she knew. Mrs. Viktor Krum would not be good for Ron. There would never be a place in time where Hermione and Ron could be anything, anything at all to each other, when she was married to Viktor. Those situations pushed apart like polar opposites.

"Yes, of course. You're right." Hermione got to her feet. "Thank you for meeting me Harry. You have made everything clearer."

Harry pushed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "I'm sorry it worked out like this Hermione. I couldn't have imagined any alternate universe where you guys wouldn't have ended up together. I can't believe this is what it has come to." The bleakness of his expression tore into her. "Bye, then." He raised a hand and then turned and walked away.

The barriers she had erected between her tears and the outside world crumbled as soon as she lost sight of him and Hermione cried deep, silent sobs, her back bucking as she struggled to regain her composure. Faintly she was aware that she was in public surrounded by other people but it wasn't enough to stop her. As soon as she mopped her face of tears, more replaced them. It felt good in a way, cathartic. Eventually the huge sobs settled to occasional lone tears. Her face felt sticky and bloated, hair spot welded to the back of her neck with sweat. _What a mess I am and what a mess I’ve made._

The park keeper had abandoned the rhododendron and was now delicately tending to a small sapling in a bed near the bench. He tenderly fingered the leaves and patted the soil around it, before encircling it with a small wire fence. Hermione watched him, reminded of Neville and his gentleness with plants and flowers. The park keeper looked up and smiled. “Fussy wee things,” he said, clipping the two ends of fencing together, “Always after something, especially when they are so young.”

She smiled falteringly back. “Sounds like you are talking about a human baby.”

“Well I have two of those at home and they aren’t nearly as demanding as these,” he pointed at the sapling, “My tree babies.”

She didn’t much feel like talking but to be polite she asked, “Do they take a lot of work?”

“Constant maintenance,” he replied, getting to his feet and lifting the spray nozzle hose nearby. He pressed the trigger and softly water began falling on the sapling. “They need 30 litres a day on average. Normally it rains enough to keep them going but with the dry weather and all. They need topping up. This one will soon be big enough to be tied on to a stake but anything can happen in the meantime. It could start to wilt or become loose in the ground. Or people stamp on them or pull them out on purpose.”

Hermione frowned. “Why would anyone do that?”

He shrugged. "No idea. People wreck things for all sorts of reasons."

_Wasn't that the truth?_

The watering finished, he stood back and admired his handiwork. "My mum used to say people were angry because their parents hadn't told them they were little sunbeams for Jesus."

Despite her acute misery, a tiny laugh erupted from Hermione's mouth. "What does that even mean?" She squinted up at him.

"No idea," he replied cheerfully, "It isn't my job to know why people do what they do. But if I can do something to make it better. Then I do."

"What happens when they get stamped on? Can you fix them?"

He collected his tools and set them into his wheel barrow as she spoke. "Sometimes. I'm always hopeful. I mean, sometimes it just isn’t possible. Something fragile like that, it can only take so much. But I've seen bad cases, really beyond saving. And I bring them home and my wife yells 'Not another bloody plant' and I pop it in a pot, feed it, nurture it, give it some TLC. They're crafty saplings. They can be real dying swans, I mean they deliberately look pitiful. They always look worse just before they get better. So I can go to bed one night and this thing is literally hanging on by a thread. I get up the next morning... BOOM. Healthy looking specimen, reaching for the sun. Never ceases to amaze me."

Hermione smiled. "You’re a hero. A plant hero!"

"Just an eternal optimist," he grinned, "I never give up the hopeless cases. See ya."

Hermione watched him amble off and her mind, briefly diverted, swung firmly back to her predicament. This was a hopeless case surely. But did she give up on it?


	9. A Lid For Every Pot

It was Friday again, it felt like it was finally Spring and Ron had been relishing the April sun through the frosted windows of the office all day. Around him now was the detritus of the leaving party Meda had thrown him and together they sat, surveying the wreckage.

“Can’t believe you are leaving me Ronikins,” Meda said for what seemed like the hundredth time today. “And to run a circus school. Like…. Who does that?”

Ron laughed and drained his cup of diluted juice. “I’m doing it! It’s going to be great. And you have Jeremy- he can be your office poster boy now.”

Meda looked horrified. “Jeremy doesn’t know his arsehole from his elbow when it comes to making tea. He doesn’t squeeze the tea bag long enough and he puts the milk in before the hot water. Honestly Ron I will not survive without you.”

“You’ll be fine,” he replied, reaching over and pulling her into a half hug. “I have already gone over the finer points of tea making with Jeremy, he’ll learn. And you won’t have to be without me. No doubt I’ll be in and out to see you all the time. I’ll be a right Mrs. Alderdyce!” As if directed, both sent their gaze to the top of the filing cabinet where the photo of Brian’s birthday was perched.

Meda smiled and ruffled his hair. “You deserve to be happy kid. You’ve had a bollocks of a time of it.” Meda didn’t know the ins and outs of why Ron had found the last year so difficult but her intuition told her it started when Hermione had walked into the office to register. It didn’t cause a lot of mental fatigue to piece together half the story and half the story was all Meda needed to be firmly Team Ron.   “We best go home.” Ron started stacking cups and she shooed him off. “Leave them. I will come in early on Monday to sort it. Think of it as a leaving present.” As Ron switched off his computer, Meda pulled on her coat and adjusted her handbag. The door opened with a swish against the carpet.

She stood in the doorway uncertain and Meda saw her first, beady as her eye was for people trying to sneak in late.

“We’re closed.” The frost in Meda’s voice made Ron look up. Hermione didn’t speak but as he met her eyes, they implored him. Ron was too dumbfounded for a moment to say anything at all. He realised then that he had truly never expected to see her again, not deliberately. And hadn’t he done such a good job of avoiding anyone or anything that might bring him into contact with her? He hadn’t even wanted to hear her name in passing. For a while, the Universe had met his demands. Now it seemed his favour had run out.

“I will lock up Meda. Go home.” Meda scowled and brushed her hair out of her eyes, all the better to see the enemy more clearly. Her stare bore into Hermione for a moment as she dropped the keys on the table by the door. As she stomped past Hermione, she gave her a look that only someone who really loved Ron could give. Even Ron winced. The door sucked shut with a soft ‘whump’ and then there was silence.

She looked different but familiar. She wore blue jeans and dented silver trainers, a soft pink jacket with a hood and utilitarian pockets and a caramel coloured scarf tucked into it. She reached up and pulled the matching beanie hat off her head. Wild coils of dark hair sprang up in every direction and she patted them absently with her other hand. Stuffing the hat into a pocket she then clasped her hands in front of her and rocked back on her heels uneasily. Her eyes never let his face.

"Do you want to sit down?" He waved at the chair in front of his booth and she walked over to it on wobbly legs and sat down. The relief on her face was tangible. He dropped down into his chair and continued to stare at her. It seemed daft, sitting across a desk from each other like they were carrying out a business transaction but Ron wasn't sure he wanted to be any closer to her. He wasn't sure what he might do or what the proximity of her might do to him.

She fidgeted with a cord that was dangling from her coat as Ron swung between wanting her to speak and wanting her to shut the hell up and stay that way. When they were silent like this, nothing more could be hurt than already was.

But this detente couldn't last. "I was going to wait a year," Hermione said suddenly, as though the conversation had been rolling in her head and she had picked up the next line and spoken it. It burst out of her. "Everyone said wait a year. They said that you probably wouldn't forgive me or want to talk to me but if I at least gave you a year then you might. The dust might have settled enough." Her fingers were fast on the cord now, winding it tightly around her thumb. From where Ron was sitting her could see the thumb pad had turned white. "But I couldn't wait anymore. I have literally been counting down the days. And today, waiting another four months was too much. So I came."

The thought of her measuring the time until she could see him gave Ron a tiny flash of pleasure but he didn't allow himself to savour it. "What did you want to say to me?"

She abruptly moved forward in her chair, making him jump. "Oh Ron, so much!" she exclaimed, gripping the arms of the chair. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry for everything. That it was all my fault. I knew deep down I shouldn't be marrying Viktor, I never loved him the way I loved... I never loved him the way he deserved to be loved. I allowed myself to be carried along by the whole thing because I was lonely and scared of being on my own forever. And I was heartbroken...."

"YOU were heartbroken?" Ron erupted, anger flickering inside him.

"YES!" She answered just as forcefully. "YES I was heartbroken and I won't apologise for saying that. You broke my heart Ronald Weasley. I would have stood by you forever and you left me. I would never have done that to you."

"You were already gone by the time we broke up Hermione. I just made it easier for you," his words sliced through the air like splinters.

"NO!" Hermione bounced in her seat again, her clutch on the chair the only thing that seemed to be stopping her from bounding over the desk at him.   "NO! That's not true! That's what you thought but it's not true. It was never true. I loved you so much. I wanted to help you..."

He could see her eyes were glittering with the start of tears but he wouldn't allow himself to acknowledge them. "I didn't want your sympathy"- she tried to interject but he spoke over her- "If we had've stayed together you would have gotten bored of me." She shook her head furiously, taking gulps of air. He admired her strenuous efforts to keep herself from crying. He knew women who could cry on demand if it meant getting what they wanted. Hermione wasn't as low as that and she held her countenance, though shakily.

"You would have," he insisted, "I sort of always knew it. I couldn't believe it when you told me you liked me at school. The great Hermione Granger, winner of every school prize ever, the girl who did everything right. And she fancied me!" He chuckled despite himself. "Who could have predicted that?"

Hermione was pressing her lips together fiercely now, her face flush. At least she was giving him the chance to speak. There was a first for everything.

"And it was great. No"- he corrected himself instantly, knowing he had to be honest- "It was better than great. Those years together were fantastic Hermione, of course they were. I thought we’d be together forever. But even before the accident I knew I was holding you back"- again she shook her head- "or I would have at some point. All those job offers you were getting.... And then we had the accident and you turned them all down and I knew it was because of me."

"I wanted to be with you," she whispered.

He smiled and he felt the sadness of it in his cheeks. "Maybe. But you would have been unhappy eventually. And I knew I was right when Harry told me you had accepted that job in America. We had only been broken up six weeks. You couldn't wait to get away."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, as if letting what he said wash over her. When she opened them, she said, "I took that job because what else was I going to do? The love of my life had just dumped me, didn't want anything to do with me. When the University renewed their offer I thought 'Why not? Why don't you disappear to America Hermione? You obviously aren't needed here'. It doesn't mean I wasn't devastated. It doesn't mean I didn't want to be here. With you. You just didn't want me."

Her whole expression seemed so defeated in that moment that Ron felt sympathy rise in waves. Next to that was a stronger emotion: the desire to believe her. He had told himself the same narrative for years, what if he had been mistaken? Was that even possible? His mind flicked back to the happy years, the happiest of his life. Could it have been as simple as forever with Hermione?

"What happened with Viktor?" At the mentioned of his name, Hermione brought her hands to her face in apparent shame, eye lowered.

"I can't believe the mess I made Ron. He didn't deserve it."

"But you said. You said you guys weren't getting along. He didn't really know you." Why was he helping her out?

"Yes, that's true," she replied thickly, "It would never have worked out. But I should have done something about it sooner. That was the correct course of action. Break it off. Much earlier than I did. Oh, we should never have got engaged. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were lonely." Ron cursed himself. Bloody hell, you are meant to be mad at her, not giving her supporting evidence.

Hermione nodded. "No excuse. We weren't right for each other and I should have recognised it from the start and put an end to it. I had plenty of chances. All I can say in my defence is that it didn't become really clear to me until I saw you. It put my feelings for him next to everything I had felt for you. And it was obvious I wasn't ever going to love him enough. And my poor mum and dad..." She cradled her forehead.

"How did they take it?"

"Mum cried, a lot. Dad sort of patted me on the back and said it would all be ok. They were both fine in the end, although they didn't understand why my feelings had changed so suddenly. I didn't tell them about you. I didn't want to involve you in the mess any more than you already were. I didn't even tell Viktor in the end."

"What did you tell him?"

"Just that I couldn't marry him. That I couldn't make him happy, that I was holding him back." She let out a dry bark that should have been a laugh but didn't quite make it. "Ironically, the reasons I broke up with Viktor were the same as the reasons you broke up with me. Serves me right. I break Viktor's heart, you break mine." She stared at her knees through her fingers. "Serves me right."

"What happened... after?" Ron knew he should kick her out now, he could feel the pull of her story, she was saying all the right things and he was being drawn in. But he couldn't stop himself asking.

She lifted her head and sniffed deeply, widening her eyes and still not allowing the unshed tears to fall. "You mean after I called off my big flashy wedding, ditched my fiancé and let everyone down, including my parents, my friends and my elderly grandmother?" She smiled a little. "Nothing, really. For ages I just kept my head down, I barely left the house. Got food delivered, didn't answers texts or calls and thoroughly punished myself for being a horrible bitch."

"You aren’t a bitch. Don't say that." Ron voice was soft and Hermione seemed to appreciate that.

"Well, whatever I was. I kept it up for five weeks until Neville came round and practically forced his way into the house." Ron grinned, thinking of their mild mannered school friend strong-arming Hermione. "He made me shower and took me out and talked some sense into me. And he helped me find a job."

"He didn't talk you into being one of his lab technicians did he? No offense but I can't really picture you dissecting a sheep's eyeball."

Hermione at first looked horrified and then visibly shuddered. "No! Oh God no. I can't even lift the birds that Kneazle brings in. No, he had a friend at another school who knew about a librarian post that was coming up. He says he didn't but I'm sure he put a good word in for me. Amway, that's where I've been for the last six months. It's nice actually. I thought it would be strange going back to work after the break but I loved it. I missed....."

"Bossing people about?" Ron knew it was dangerous territory to tease her but he couldn't avoid that one.

She gawped at him in mock astonishment. "Gosh how rude. But yes, perhaps I did miss bossing people about. It gives me purpose." She grinned at him and Ron felt himself grinning back.

Dangerous.

Their eyes met and for a second it felt so fantastic. Like they had been able to delve back into a better time. But they seem to sense the imperfection of the moment and, identically, their smiles faded.

"Look, Ron," Hermione started, her face serious, "I know we can't go back. I know that really this is all water under the bridge and I won’t insult you by asking you to take me back or anything…” She paused just long enough for Ron to wonder what that would feel like. To wonder what he might say to that. “But I did want to the opportunity to say I’m sorry. I dragged you into all this, at a time when you were so vulnerable and I confused you and made you sad. And I’m really sorry. I just wanted you to know.” She stood up suddenly and pulled the hat out of her pocket, ramming it on her head, right down to her dark eyes. Her hair, no longer used to being tamed, rebelled and fanned outwards by her cheeks.

Ron knew now was the time to say something. She was going to walk out of the office now, having said her bit and he might never see her again. This amazing girl literally represented the best and worst times of his life. He had been at his most happy with her but the pain caused by the loss of her had been difficult to heal. Probably it hadn’t really healed at all, given that seeing her again had been like salt in the wound. But could he really put himself out there again? Expose himself to the risk?

She didn’t give him any more time to think as she turned on her heel, walked over and pulled open the door. It closed behind her and Ron felt his body shake a little as he slumped back in the chair. Adrenaline coursed through him, fingers tingling, stomach turning over. Bloody hell, that had been a full body experience. Surely nothing that was good for you should make you feel so… what did he even feel? Overwhelmed, naturally. Nauseated, definitely. Nervous, excited, thrilled. Really? After everything that had happened, was he admitting to himself that there was still more there?

Ron sat up in the chair and glanced up at the photograph on the filing cabinet. He studied the happy faces for a long moment, found himself smiling at Mrs. A beaming in the centre of the picture like she was the guest of honour. How glad he was now that they had had her in their lives. Unbeknownst to him, she had been an integral part of working here. She had made things fun, unexpected. She lifted his spirits when she stalked in wearing a leopard print gypsy skirt or peacock feathers in her hat.

Briefly, Barbara Harwin entered his head and he wondered what she was doing now, how she was making a life for herself without Sam. He thought about her standing at the dance, so sure she wouldn’t ever find anyone to love. But Sam was there, waiting for her on the dance floor. _A lid for every pot._

He was out the door before he really knew what he was doing. Down the corridor, hard footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting. Out into the atrium, feet now slapping the checkboard floor, where he stopped. In front of him, the double front doors sat open. Above them, the last of the Spring sun illuminated his starburst window, lighting it up and making it blaze. And beneath the window, leaning against the left hand door, was Hermione. Her back to him, she was standing quite still, watching the dying sun as it disappeared behind a building. He walked slowly towards her, breath held, fists clenched. Each step he took sounded loud and large in the atrium but she didn’t turn. When he reached her, Ron stepped up alongside her, both facing out towards the sun.

“I love you,” he said simply.

Hermione turned her head and looked up at him. “I love you too.”

 


	10. Favourite Couple Of All

Travelling home was a surreal experience. They didn't speak much after this ultimate declaration. Ron retrieved his hoodie and locked the office and then they walked together to the bus stop. But the buses were slow to arrive and Ron hailed a cab- there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them that this was urgent. Somewhere in the hot darkness of the cab they held hands and both took the time to appreciate both how that felt and what it looked like, Hermione's diminutive palm locked in Ron's long fingers.

Ron directed the cab driver to his house and still they didn't speak. He paid the fare as the car pulled up to his gate, helped Hermione step down and walked her up the path. She watched him unlock the door, followed him into the hall and then on into the depth of the house.

"I had you down for an apartment," Hermione said finally looking around, her voice a little shaky. "You know, single boy living alone. Lots of black leather and electronics." She was taken aback at how cosy Ron had made the place. The sofa was leather but it was a deep maroon colour with abstract print cushions that looked inviting. She walked round the room, admiring the framed pictures of his family, the huge terracotta armchair facing the tv. She could see Ron in her mind’s eye, legs slung over the arm, shouting at the football and drinking beer with Harry. The thought made her smile.

When she had made the full 360, she came back to him, leaning against the dining table at the top of the room. He was biting his lip and half smiling, hardly moving and not speaking. They had rushed to get here and now they stood still.

The stillness was momentary; Hermione couldn't wait any longer and she wouldn't let him prolong it any further. She crossed the space between them, much like he had done that night in the street. But this time, when their lips touched it was honest and real.

Kissing Ron was nothing short of lightning bolts and thunder and it made her body sing. The meeting of their mouths happened with such fierceness she was instantly breathless and struggling between drawing breath and keeping them together. His fingers scrunched her hair into his fist while his other arm wrapped her flush to him, his pelvis to her belly. She had almost caught her breath when she felt her feet leave the floor as he set her onto the table.

Ron pulled back long enough to unzip and remove her coat. He quickly divested her of her sweater, leaving just the neon pink lace bra. He placed his hand either side of her abdomen and for a moment, just looked at her. Seconds ticked by and Hermione felt self-consciousness swell.

"I'm not 23 anymore."

Ron exhaled sharply and dropped his head to laugh. "Fuck Hermione." When he raised his head again his blue eyes were so heavy with desire, she felt the thump of it in her core. "If you think you aren't the sexiest thing I have ever seen, you're crazy."

He grabbed her face and licked into her mouth at the exact moment she spread her thighs and he pressed between them. She pulled his shirt from his trousers and blindly unbuttoned. She managed to get half the buttons undone before he dropped her head to the side and bit into her neck, extracting a small yelp which melted into a groan. The bite turned into a suck, tender skin caught between tooth and lip, as Ron's deft fingers snapped open her bra.

Hermione felt the weight of her breasts fall against her ribs and immediately Ron had pressed his palm over one, roughly squeezing her nipple, working it in his fingers as he applied more force to her neck. The sensation of pain mixed with her arousal was a potent aphrodisiac. She ground her hips against him, hoping he would understand. This was no long, slow burn fuck. This needed to happen. Quickly.

She heard him laugh against her neck and ran his mouth up to her ear. "Impatient."

"I can't.... This isn't going to last Ron." She bucked her hips again and he took the hint. Back on her mouth and without breaking the connection he pulled her from the table, allowing her to unbutton her jeans and push them down over her hips. Scrambling back onto the table, Hermione reached for him again, kicking her legs to release the remainder of her clothes. Drawing her nails up his back over his shirt, skin that had forgotten what it was like to be stimulated in this way, she felt him shiver.

As if it somehow fired him up further, Ron trailed his hand over her stomach and between her legs. She could feel the pads of two fingers come to rest on her soaked knickers, at first applying light pressure that she could barely discern then gradually becoming stronger, a slow circle over her clit. The snag of the wet cotton on the sensitive skin brought her closer still to orgasm and Hermione desperately tried to stop herself from going over the edge.

She focused on the heat of his hand on her back, fingers dimpling the skin, and the lash of his tongue in her mouth. She felt one finger creep around the lace, followed by the other and for a wild moment, as he pushed his fingers inside her, she wondered if he still remembered how to get her there. They had spent many hours perfecting each other's techniques so at one point, they were world class specialists in making each other come. That had been ten years ago, though. Lots of things had changed since then.

But when Ron hooked his finger inside her, thumb pressed firmly against her clit and whispered, 'come for me', she knew she was done for. Her orgasm crested over her from the deepest part of her belly and switched on each cell in her body. She felt herself drop against Ron momentarily, his strong hand supporting her in the aftermath of the chaos his other hand had wreaked. She raised her head to his face and kissed his softly smiling mouth as the tremors faded.

What started gently progressed quickly as the kiss deepened and Hermione worked at Ron's fly, releasing his trousers and boxers to his feet. He pulled her close, enveloping her body into his arms as they kissed and she could feel his erection pressing against her, ramping up the excitement in her own body again. Hermione broke the kiss and stared into his eyes, wanting to stamp this exact moment on her brain forever. Laying back on to the table, she watched Ron pull her knickers off, wriggling her hips and making him groan. He lightly ran the tip of his cock over her drenched slit in retaliation and she groped for the sides of the table, gripping firmly to stop herself from crying out. He entered her slowly, inch by inch and the ache of her opening up for him bordered on pain.

“Fuuuck,” Ron hissed, pulling her by the hips so she was pressed right against him. Using her grip on the table to power her, Hermione pushed against him, matching his thrusts, arse banging the table in protest at their height difference. She knew he wouldn’t last long, how could he when it felt this good? Sure enough, the thrusting became quicker, breathing harder and Ron leant over her, one hand pressed against the wood underneath her. She rose up slightly to meet him and met his eyes at the second he lost control. The sensation triggered her own orgasm and she drove their hips together again and again until they were spent.

Ron pressed his face to her belly and gasped lungfuls of air. That was monumental, he had forgotten how it felt to come with her. And how it felt to make her writhe in pleasure and pain. There would always be a depraved part of him that relishing fucking the Head Girl.

He rose slowly, pulling her carefully with him. Her hair had been shagged within an inch of its life against the wood grain and created a fluffy halo round her head. He had forgotten, in the heat of the moment, how uneven the roughhewn wood was. In his befuddled, orgasmed induced stupor he made a note to check Hermione for splinters later.

Ron pulled his trousers back up to his hips and loosely fastened them. Hermione made to reach for her jeans and he stopped her.

"Leave them, we're only going upstairs."

"But you have yours!" she protested, gesturing at his shirt.

He captured her hand and twirled her towards the door. "Not for long."

His bedroom was grey, lighter on the wall, darker on the carpet, with a robust walnut headboard on the king sized bed. Hermione crawled on to it, lying down on top of the white sheets and blankets as he lay beside her. On the opposite wall, hung a black and white canvas of a ram.

"You still support Derby." He had taken her hand again and was kissing each knuckle.

"You never change football teams."

"Are they still the worst ever football team of all time?"

He mocked frowned. "Oi. Don't disrespect the team. You're only in the door."

He saw her stomach muscles clench out the corner of his eye and he knew why. This would be the first, of many times, that they would have to address this new development. As with anything serious, Ron preferred to do it with humour but Hermione was more a soul searching, deep exploration type. This would be heavy in her mind.

"Was it too soon?" She raised an eyebrow in query. "This. I knew I wanted to, I think you wanted to as well. But I can see how maybe we should have waited. Made it special?"

"Oh God Ron, no!" she quickly jumped in, snatching her hand from where he held it near his mouth and taking his face in it. "That was exactly the way it should have been. It _was_ special. God, I had been wanting to do that since I came into the office today. I'm not sure how security would have felt if we had started going at it on your desk though."

Ron thought about Liam disturbing them mid fuck. "He would have approved mostly likely. _'Good for you son_!'" Ron began running a trail over her skin with his middle finger: collarbone, nipple, belly button, the supple skin on her inside thigh. He examined the spidery white lines at the top of her thighs, feeling the texture difference in them, stark in comparison to the rest of her skin.

Hermione sat up on her elbows. "I've put on weight since I broke up with Viktor. I went from eating nothing to eating everything. None of my clothes fit me anymore." She grimaced. "And the worst part is, I've developed stretchmarks."

Ron caressed one of the bands lightly. "What this little thing? You can hardly see it."

"I know. It's silly isn't it. I shouldn't mind them so much but they make me feel unattractive. They aren't exactly sexy are they?"

Ron considered this, suddenly aware that this could be the moment. If Hermione was wondering why he had kept his shirt on, she hadn't mentioned it. She must know but she had been thoughtful enough to wait and let him find his own time. Which seemed like now.

Taking her hands, he pulled her up so they were facing each other kneeling on the bed.

"Do you think I'm sexy Hermione?"

She beamed up at him. "Of course I do. After what just happened I don't think anybody can be in any doubt about that."

He dropped her hands and deftly unbuttoned his shirt, not giving her time to think about what was about to happen. Once undone, he let it fall off his shoulders and onto the bed. "What about now?"

He saw the mirth leave her eyes and her mouth dropped open slightly. He had a head start on her, ten years to get used to them. It was strange seeing the reaction of someone new; he didn't show them to anybody. Even during the few flings he had undertaken over the years, he had kept his arms covered. He would tell girls it turned him on, sex half clothed. No one ever questioned him. The only time he was ever without a shirt outside was at home in Ottery St Catchpole when he was helping his mother in the garden and even then he couldn't keep uncovered for too long for fear of sunburn. His family and his doctors were the only people who had ever seen them up close. And here he was, showing them to Hermione.

"Can I?" He nodded and she began lightly tracing his arms, one finger, then two. Her touch was cold and strangely abnormal. Her hands on his face, chest- that all felt familiar and right. The scar tissue was new. It was untouched by anyone except him, for a long time now. She followed the ropes round the backs of his arms, areas even he didn't touch purposefully, and the skin tingled. Goosebumps appeared on the areas of normal skin and she met his eye.

"Sorry. Did I hurt you?" He shook his head no and she carried on, mapping out each area of affected flesh until she had studied it all. Hermione sat back on her heels, face flush.

"I didn't know what to expect. I knew there had to be scarring, what you did.... I just didn't know."

"They're quite faded now, they used be really red and angry looking. They look worse than they are, honestly. They don't hurt, sometimes they feel a bit tight. There was a lot of contracture at one point so that had to be surgically released. But after that settled, it has just been getting used to them."

Hermione rubbed his forearms with her thumbs, looking closely at the white spiderwebs overlying the shallow pale pink craters. She didn't say anything as she brushed her skin over his, which was slightly unnerving. Ron had been hesitant about doing this but underneath his initial fear, he instinctively felt it would be safe. This was Hermione- if any harbour was sheltered then she was it. She had loved him despite all his faults; this couldn't be a deal breaker.

She had been silent for a long time, though, and she was starting to worry him. Perhaps he had underestimated how shocking this would be. He had gotten used to the look of himself; this must be overwhelming. Like Hermione had said downstairs, they weren't 23 anymore.

"What is it?"

She blinked and released a heavy tear he hadn't seen forming. Concern broke in him but she shh'd him when he tried to speak. "Sorry, I didn't mean to cry. I just.."

"What?"

"I feel so guilty Ron," she replied quietly, wiping her face. "This is my fault. If I had've moved out of the way sooner, you wouldn't have had to push me. You've lived with these scars for ten years and I did this. I don't know what to say."

Relief coursed through him. "Bloody hell Hermione. Guilt? You think guilt is the worst case scenario?" She stared at him, a mix of confusion and despair. He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her mouth. "I was expecting repulsion. Disgust. I thought you were going to tell me they were revolting!" He kissed her again, suddenly heady with delight.

"You don't disgust me Ron!" she spluttered, attempting to untangle herself from his enthusiastic embrace. "I would never say that. I love you no matter what. But..."

"BUT NOTHING!" he shouted over her, pulling her closely until she gave up struggling. "You love me. Just as I am. Nothing else matters." He squeezed and released her, dazed, back to the bed. "You don't have to feel guilty for anything, love. I would do it again."

"Don't say that. I would never want you to do that." Hermione looked so apprehensive, Ron knew he needed to address this right now, else it seeped into every day from now.

"Look Hermione. I don't regret it. At. All. Never. It was the single most physically painful thing I have ever experienced and it took me to a really dark place. The recovery was miserable, living at home was shit. For God's sake I started letting mum cut my hair again because I didn't want to face anyone. I didn't sleep for months because it was so uncomfortable. I took painkillers in tablets, patches and impregnated dressings and it usually wasn't enough."

Hermione's mouth was slowly turning down with each sentence.

"But the one thing that kept me going was knowing that you weren't having to do it. If one of us had to go through all of that, I'm glad it was me."

"It shouldn't have been either of us..."

"No it shouldn't. But it happened and it was me and I'm glad." She shook her head. "You can't stop me being glad, love. I'll always be grateful. I'd never have gotten over it if this had've been the other way round. Honestly the worst days of the whole thing were the first after I woke up. I could feel how badly I was hurt and I thought that meant you were the same. I was so drowsy I was incoherent most of the time and I kept asking Mum how bad you were but she didn't really understand. She just kept telling me you were fine. When I was awake, all I thought about was you. I couldn't bear that you were injured."

Hermione was fully crying now, hands pressed to her face. Ron cupped her hands with his own and kissed her forehead.

"No more tears, Lady Hermione." His schooldays nickname for her brought an abrupt end to her snuffling and he thumbed her face dry. "When I was eventually able to hold a conversation and I found out that you were okay, it made everything easier. It felt like a weight had been lifted. Seeing you walking around, your pretty face. It got me through. So no more tears. Its over."

He held her for a while and when she pulled away from him, she still appeared flushed. "I'm mortified I'm crying about this and it happened to you. It's so selfish."

"It happened to both of us," Ron replied matter-of-factly, running a thumb over the scar on her forearm.

"Oh that," she responded, instantly dismissive, "That's nothing. God, it doesn't even compare."

"Well then let's come to an agreement. No more discussion about scars. Ever. We'll just forget them. Even those little wonky ones here." He gently brushed the stretchmarks on her thigh.

For the first time, she laughed a little. Taking a long inhale, she said, "Yes, ok. No more talk about scars." She was silent for a moment and then looked down at her body. "I'm suddenly really aware that I'm naked."

Ron whooped and pulled her down onto the bed with him. "My favorite way for you to be. Never put clothes on again ever."

She laughed against his mouth as he kissed her. "We might have to get up at some point."

"Not for a good long while though. We have to make up for lost time. Now, back to you telling me how sexy I was..” With that, he pulled her onto him and kissed her the way he had wanted to forever.

 

*********************************************************

 

Molly Weasley was uncomfortable about a June wedding. _Marry when June roses grow, over land and sea you’ll go_ , that’s what her mother used to say and Molly had been telling anyone who would listen that this meant that the newlyweds would soon travel far away from her. But even she had to admit that when the sun rose that morning, you could feel that it was going to be a perfect day. The ceremony had been sweet and personal, many tears shed, and now she stood outside City Hall, her arm tucked inside Arthur’s, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back. To her left her children stood, occasionally shoving each other playfully or hooting with laughter. Her daughter looked radiant and content, cuddling her baby son to her chest, his chunky little legs kicking aimlessly and her husband, the boy who was already part of the family long before Ginny married him, alongside her, one protective arm slung easily along the base of her spine. Her sons and their wives sorting children of various sizes and ages, scolding and hugging in equal measure. All this family life, so normal and humdrum, was what made Molly happiest.

But she had always worried about her youngest son. Of course she worried about them all and there had been trials and tribulations with each over the years. Ronald, however, gave her pause for thought. Head in the clouds one minute, beating up school bullies on Harry’s behalf the next. Molly and Arthur had never been sure what he was going to come home and tell them next. And Hermione Granger. Well, Molly had seen the signs long before Ron even suspected. One day he was a grubby teenaged scrap who hid slugs in his classmates’ schoolbags for laughs and refused to bathe more than twice a week. When she next looked, he had grown a foot, took longer in the shower than the entire family put together and had actually started to comb his hair. Ginny used to squeal the place down when she found him in her bedroom stealing her acne lotion or hair gel. Conversations were peppered with ‘Hermione said’ and ‘me and Hermione’.

Molly had been delighted when it turned out Hermione liked him too. _She_ knew Ron was wonderful but teenaged girls could be so fickle. When it all seemed to work out, Molly’s heart felt happy. But then came the accident and it seemed like nothing would ever fit right again. It had taken Ron so long to get up and over the hurdles he faced and he had refused to do it with Hermione by his side. Molly didn’t blame Hermione for going away, she felt more anger when she heard she had returned and was engaged to Viktor Krum. She had been very wary when Ron had showed up at the Burrow, Hermione under his arm, so elated that they were back together. All the heart ache forgotten. Molly wasn’t ashamed of the fact that she had given Hermione quite a hard time at the start. They all had. Even George, whom Molly considered her most even-tempered child, had treated Hermione with frosty indifference.

But Hermione had weathered it out. She was serious about becoming part of the family again, dedicated to her future with Ron. She took every offhand remark or snarky comment on the chin until there were no more remarks or comments to make. And now, here they were.

A cheer rose up from Molly’s right where friends and work colleagues stood. Ron and Hermione stepped up to the entrance of City Hall, framed by the blue double doors. Hermione was luminous in a white shift dress, softly fluted in an A line to her knees and cinched with a slim white belt. Summery coral nails peeked out from her sling back peep toe sandals and her hair had been tamed, the upper half into a soft low bee hive, the lower half into satin waves round her shoulders. In one hand she carried a posy of daffodils and forget-me-nots. In the other, she clasped her husband’s hand. Ron’s grey three piece fit to the leanness of his body, making him appear even taller than usual and more graceful. His smile had yet to break though it had been present from early morning.

As the photographer fussed round them, setting up equipment and checking the light, Hermione looked at Ron in profile, distracted by something one of his brothers had shouted. The redness of his hair gleamed in the sunlight, his whole face open and blissful. She couldn’t quite believe that she had the power to make this man so happy. What a wonderful gift. The thought that it had almost been taken away made her feel unnerved and she unwittingly squeezed his hand.

“Ok?” He smiled across at her. “Those heels must be massive. We’re the same size!”

“All the better to kiss you with Mr. Weasley,” Hermione replied, pressing her lips to his nose. “Ooops, lipstick.” She gently thumbed the print off.

“Thank you Mrs. Weasley.” Ron was fighting a certain amount of disbelief himself. No one falls in love with their best friend from school and marries her. That was the story he had been telling himself for years. There were literally a million scenarios that were more likely than this one and yet he was standing outside City Hall on a beautiful June day clutching the hand of the girl he had scribbled notes to in study period. They had gone from ‘will you do the introduction to my History essay?’ to ‘will you be my wife?’ and Ron had always felt like that was precarious somehow. That it shouldn’t have been this easy.

“It shouldn’t have been this easy,” he said out loud, surprising himself.

Hermione frowned. “What shouldn’t?”

“I was just thinking… it shouldn’t be as easy as marrying your childhood sweetheart,”

Laughter erupted from Hermione. “Good grief Ronald, there are a lot of words I would use to describe our journey to this point. Easy is not one of them.”

Startled, he realised she was right. Their relationship had been seriously arduous at times, they almost hadn’t made it. Why was he looking for the trapdoors now?

He laughed with her. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

“Right guys, we’re good to go,” the photographer called up to them. “Give her a kiss Ron.”

Hermione leaned towards him but Ron put a restraining hand up. “Hold it. I have seen my share of weddings here, we have a lot to live up to. This can’t be just any old kiss.” He took Hermione’s flowers from her and carefully set them to one side. Turning, he slid one long arm up her back, cradling the base of head in his hand. With other hand firm on her hip bone he stepped forward and dipped her back.

Hermione squealed, fingers clenching his arms as more cheers and yells erupted. “Ron!”

He laughed, his breath warm on her face. “Has to be a proper old style Hollywood kiss, love. Weasleys don’t do anything by halves.” As his lips touched hers, Hermione reached up and cupped his jaw softly, pressing closer to him, feeling safe in his arms.

Above the heads of this most happiest of couples hung a fabulous sunburst window, bursting with sun. And was it just the imagination, or did it twinkle just a little bit brighter when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took their big kiss? As if they were its favorite couple of all.

 


End file.
